by Flora, Kate;
Through the door, he could see McCann and Cashman turn away from the window toward the corner where Stan Perry had been standing. He couldn’t see the corner. Couldn’t tell if Perry was still there or if they were responding to a noise.
The inner door was open, only the screen door closed. Praying it wasn’t locked, he pushed on it gently. Not locked. He opened it slowly, knowing how the springs on cottage doors like to screech and snap. Screen doors also like to slam, so he closed it carefully behind him. He stepped into the room, gun up, the thud and squish of his wet feet on the old fir boards causing McCann and Cashman to turn. Two big men and two big guns now facing him.
“Police,” he said. “Drop your weapons.”
Being on the business end of a gun never got easier.
He reminded himself to breathe.
“Police. Drop your weapons,” he said again. More loudly this time. Sometimes it took volume and force to penetrate the tunnel vision of the person holding a gun. He knew he looked a lot less like a cop than a drowned rat. But this wasn’t about appearances. It was about authority.
His niece gave a shuddering sob and began to scream. McCann, and his gun, started turning toward her and Burgess shot him. McCann went down on one knee, and took a shot at Burgess. He felt it thud into his vest and his chest exploded with spreading pain as he slammed back against the door. He managed to get off another shot. This time, McCann went down and stayed down.
He shifted his focus back to Cashman, who was moving toward Cherry and Dylan. Two potential hostages. There was a blur of movement as Stan Perry launched himself at Cashman, slamming him to the floor, his hand, and his gun, trapped under his body. Perry knelt on his back while Kyle wrestled one hand free, snapped a cuff on it, and began cautiously easing out the other hand with the gun. Burgess saw Perry sense Cashman’s intent to rear up and use the gun, and he shifted one of his knees to the back of Cashman’s neck.
Puddles formed where water dripped off their bodies and clothes, and Kyle’s dark hair was slicked to his head, making him look like a sleek seal. A fierce-faced, blue-eyed seal.
“Give it up, Cashman,” Kyle commanded. “You’ve lost. Now give us the gun.”
“You will step away from that man,” a new voice commanded. He had a slight Hispanic accent. Another small man with a gun. It seemed Cashman and McCann did have a small army.
“All right. All right, I’m moving,” Stan Perry said, as Kyle stopped trying to wrestle Cashman’s arm out and rocked back on his heels.
“Drop your guns,” the man commanded. His eyes were on Kyle and Perry.
Burgess, fearing any sudden move might get one of them shot, yelled, "Watch out. Behind you. He’s right behind you!” Oldest trick in the book. It stayed in the book because it worked.
The man turned and Perry launched himself, slamming the smaller man to the floor. Burgess covered Kyle as Cashman’s gun hand came out and Kyle jerked the gun from his hand.
Cherry was still screaming.
Burgess helped Kyle capture and cuff Cashman’s second hand. Despite his position working in a school, where presumably background checks had been conducted, Cashman’s resistance suggested he’d been handcuffed before. Burgess tucked Cashman’s gun into his belt. Then Kyle went to help Stan Perry subdue his man.
Burgess turned to his niece. “Shut up, Cherry,” he said. “You’re not helping.”
She sucked in a shuddering breath and gave him a furious stare. “I found the bad guy,” she said in a sobbing voice.
“And you damned near got a lot of people killed tonight. Including my son, yourself, and three fine cops.” It wasn’t kind, but he wasn’t feeling kind. There would be time for kind later. He was feeling like if she really wanted to be a cop, she needed to work on her judgment. He was feeling like nearly getting herself and Dylan killed—never mind the rest of them—wasn’t a good move and she didn’t deserve coddling and a pat on the head. She needed to understand the enormity of what she'd done and the danger she’d caused.
Anyway, right now the issue was not people’s feelings. It was getting the bad guys under control and making sure everyone was okay.
Holding his side, which hurt like he’d been kicked by a mule, he limped over to Dylan, pulling out one of the handkerchiefs he always carried and mopping blood off his son’s face. Dylan had a nasty head wound, but Burgess males have hard heads. He thought Dylan would be okay, but seeing his son’s still, white face shook him.
The boy’s lids fluttered, then opened, and there were his dark brown eyes. Burgess eyes. Eyes that looked confused. Dylan’s face twisted with pain.
“It’s okay,” Burgess said. “It’s okay. We’ve got you. Cherry is okay. McCann and Cashman are in custody. And help is on the way.”
Dylan’s mouth moved between a wince and a smile. “Thought you were the help.”
“I’ve noticed you all feel that way sometimes,” Burgess said. “When I make dinner, maybe I am the help. Right now, I’m a cop rescuing a couple of reckless kids from the bad guys.”
His son smiled and Burgess gripped his hand.
Dylan closed his eyes with a sigh. Burgess’s son was not a happy camper. “My head feels broken,” he said. Then, “I’m in pretty deep shit, aren’t I?”
“You are. Not something to worry about right now.”
He looked around the room. Kyle had Cashman on his stomach on the floor, hands cuffed behind him and was duct taping his ankles. Perry had the Hispanic man cuffed, also on his stomach, waiting for his turn with the duct tape. The man was swearing up a storm in Spanish and glaring daggers at everyone.
Burgess checked McCann’s pulse. It wasn’t strong, but the man was alive. If they’d had more handcuffs, he would have thrown some on McCann just to be safe. Many a cop has lost his life to someone deemed not to be a threat because he’s injured. Duct tape would have to do.
He went to the kitchen to find some scissors so he could cut Cherry loose. It hurt to breathe. To move. He really wanted to lie down somewhere and die a quiet death away from prying eyes. Like so often in his world, his own issues would have to wait.
Cherry submitted to his ministrations without a word, but if his read was right, she wasn’t sulking anymore. She was embarrassed. When she was finally freed, she murmured a quick “thanks” and threw herself down on the floor beside Dylan. Burgess assumed her quiet mutterings were apologies for nearly getting Dylan killed and getting him in trouble with his parents.
Burgess surveyed the room. There were more things he was supposed to be doing. This place needed to be searched. Vehicles needed to be towed. There were a zillion reports to write, twice as many because he’d fired his gun. But like a popped balloon, he was suddenly flattened. He didn’t protest when Kyle took his arm, led him to the couch, and started unbuttoning his shirt.
“I’m okay, Ter. It’s just a bruise.”
“We both know about these bruises,” Kyle said, fumbling at the wet buttons with tired fingers. “There’s no ‘just’ about them.”
At that moment, the cavalry arrived. The two officers from out on the road, followed by the wail of an ambulance, and then Melia was there with more Portland officers.
Kyle abandoned his effort to unbutton Burgess’s shirt, uttered a curt “stay here” and led a contingent outside to collect the three men they’d already subdued. Melia used his cuffs on McCann and Stan Perry oversaw loading him into the ambulance while an EMT checked out Dylan’s injuries, wrapping his head wound in gauze until it could get stitched.
“You want me to take Dylan to Maine Med, Joe?” Melia asked.
Burgess considered. He didn’t want to let his son out of his sight, but there was also Cherry, who needed to be returned to her mom. And Chris’s car. Cashman’s car and the van to tow to 109 and search. The cottage to search.
His brain was running lists. His body was calling it a day.
“I’ll take him. If you could take Cherry back to my sister’s—”
“I’m staying with D
ylan,” Cherry said.
“Okay. But call your mother first.” Burgess held his phone out to her.
“I don’t want—”
“Pardon the language, beloved niece, but right now I don’t give a flying fuck what you want. Your shenanigans put three police officers in grave danger. Not that you would have thought of this, but everything’s a lot more complicated when there are hostages involved. You could have gotten yourselves and all of us killed because you wanted to play girl detective.”
He shook the phone. “Make the damned call.”
She took the phone and went into a corner where she crouched over the phone, her back to them. He heard her tentative, “Mom? It’s me. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. No. It’s okay. I’m okay. Dylan’s hurt, but I’m okay. Uncle Joe came to get us.” Anything else she might have said was drowned by tears. After a while, he heard her say, “Yes. He’s here. Hold on.” She held the phone out to him.
The last thing on earth he wanted to do right now was listen to any more of Sandy’s worries, criticisms, or complaints. Despite the warm night, he was wet and chilled and he hurt. He took the phone.
Sandy’s words were an echo of her daughter’s. “I’m sorry, Joe. I’m sorry I was such a bitch to you. Thank you for saving my daughter.” Then she dissolved in sobs.
“It’s okay, Sandy,” he said, not sure what was okay, but always the protective big brother. “I’m going to take them to Maine Med to get Dylan checked out, then I’ll bring her home.”
“Checked out? Is Dylan okay?”
“Dylan’s hurt.”
“Is it bad? Is he? Will he be—”
Burgess cut her off. “I don’t know, Sandy. We can talk about this later. I’ve got a crime scene to deal with right now.”
Miraculously, his sister didn’t argue. He disconnected.
He put his phone away and looked at Melia. “Can you take over here? I’ve got to get my kid stitched up…”
“Are you okay?” Melia looked at the hole in his shirt. Then studied his face. “You look like hell.”
“Bruised. You know how it is.”
Melia shook his head. “Joe? You know the protocol. You need to get checked out.”
“I just want to go home. Can someone drive the little white car back to my house?”
“Thought I saw your Explorer. You came in two cars?”
“I’m good, but not that good.”
Melia grinned.
Burgess jerked his chin toward his son. “A certain unlicensed driver ‘borrowed’ his mother’s car to help his cousin do some detective work.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Grateful,” Burgess said. He was drifting, in danger of falling asleep in a room full of people again.
Then Kyle’s hand was hauling him up. “Time to go. We can finish this mess tomorrow. Gotta get you and Dylan checked out.”
“I’m fine.”
“Melia’s orders.”
“We never leave—”
“Well, we’re about to. A certain police detective I tend to look up to often reminds me that people come first. And like it or not, Joe, you are a person.”
Burgess didn’t feel much like a person. He felt like a semi-ambulatory ball of pain.
Kyle held out his hand. “Your keys.”
He hated having to lean on Kyle, but he needed the help of that arm. Stan Perry came behind them, shepherding the kids, one arm around Dylan’s shoulders, the other around Cherry’s. Burgess’s biological family and his work family. It had been a hell of a night.
As they passed the white van, he heard whimpering. “Stan, can you?”
Stan Perry opened the van, and a frantic, half-grown black dog tumbled out.
“Think this is Fideau?” Burgess asked.
At the sound of its name, the dog quieted and looked at Burgess with curious eyes, then approached and licked his hand. He didn’t have the bandwidth to deal with anything more tonight, but had the vague feeling that the Burgess family was about to acquire a dog.
Melia, who’d come along behind them, said he’d take care of it.
“Fideau,” Burgess said. “Treat him kindly. He’s a witness.”
As Kyle tucked him into the car, he thought of other times when Kyle had been there for him. Thought about how often Stan’s impulsive antics helped them out of tight spots or secured a vital clue. He guessed that while he always thought he wanted Perry to grow up, there was value in the crazy way the kid could make things happen. If he didn’t get himself—or them—shot in the process.
“Thanks, Stan,” he said.
“Any time, Boss.”
“I sure hope not,” Kyle said.
The kids in the back were silent, except for the occasional sob from Cherry and some murmured comfort from Dylan. He and Perry and Kyle strategized about interviewing Cashman and McCann and who would cover the Dornan’s autopsies.
Despite the pain from rocking on a bumpy road, comforted that the A Team, or The Crips, had things covered, he’d almost drifted off when his phone rang.
He pulled it out, gathering his wits. Chris.
“Hey,” he said.
“Don’t you ‘hey’ me,” she said. “Your son and my car are both gone. You got any idea what’s going on?”
Forty-Three
Burgess was trying to formulate an adequate response when Kyle took the phone.
“Hey, Chris,” he said. “It’s Terry.” He listened, said, “Cherry talked Dylan into borrowing your car so she could track down a guidance counselor from her school that she thought might be involved in the homicide of a girl she knew. They ran into some trouble, but it’s all taken care of now. We’re going to run by the hospital and get some stitches in Dylan’s head.”
He listened. “No. We think he’s okay, except for needing stitches. But they’ll probably do a scan to be sure. And your car should be back in your driveway before you need it for work.” He listened again.
Burgess felt like a piker, letting Kyle have the hard conversation he should have been having. Nor did he think Chris would let him off the hook that easily. She liked Terry Kyle, and she trusted him, but sooner or later, she’d ask the question he and Kyle were hoping to avoid.
“Just some stitches in Dylan’s head, Terry? You aren’t hiding anything from me? Like the possibility that Joe’s been hurt, which is why I’m talking to you instead of him?”
“He was wearing a vest, Chris.”
Kyle had the phone on speaker, so Burgess was hearing their conversation.
“And do you think I’m the sort of naïve person who believes that someone wearing a vest can’t be hurt?”
“Someone who was wearing a vest is fine, Chris,” Burgess said. “They just have to check me out. It’s protocol.”
“I’ll see you there,” she said, and ended the conversation.
“Uh oh,” came from the back seat. Two voices in chorus.
“Betcha my mom will be there, too,” Cherry said. “I am so grounded.”
“Dad, is there any way to—”
“No,” Burgess said. “I can’t think of any good way to tell a woman whose car was stolen that she should stay home and not confront the thief.”
There was silence in the back seat. Then Dylan said, “We are so screwed.”
Burgess had no response to that. Likely all three of them were screwed, but that was not something to be shared with two errant kids.
They dropped Stan Perry off where they’d left the cars. He’d drive Kyle back to get his car later. They were all eager to get Cashman and McCann into interview rooms. McCann’s interview would have to wait until his condition stabilized, but he’d lied to them, raped a child, and shot a cop, so he wouldn’t get any slack. Kyle and Perry would take a run at Cashman as soon as Burgess was delivered to the hospital.
Burgess hated to miss that interview, but there was no way he could sneak back to 109 and join his team. Melia would be there.
“I could do it,” Burgess said. “I’m
fine.”
“You’re green,” said Kyle. “You’re moving like a thousand year old man. You need to be sure nothing’s busted and your lungs are okay.”
From the back seat, little Miss I Want To Be A Detective said, “I thought you were okay if you wore a vest.”
“You’re more okay than if you don’t wear one,” Kyle said. “But it’s still a lot of blunt force trauma. Ribs can break and organs can be damaged. Now let’s all be quiet boys and girls and let the poor man rest.”
On quieter roads, in a quiet car, Burgess was just drifting off when Dylan moaned and said, “Oh. God. My head feels like it’s exploding. I am so going to be sick.”
It could be something. It could be nothing, but Kyle said, “Hold on if you can,” and went for lights and sirens the rest of the way, rocking to a stop outside the ER. Dylan bolted out of the car and bent over, vomiting.
Burgess’s philosophy about ERs was you got the fastest service if you arrived unconscious. Dylan was discovering the second best way—arrive with a bad head wound and uncontrolled vomiting.
Their reception committee—one woman over the top with anxiety and the other mad as hell—had to delay whatever they wanted to say while Dylan was wheeled away on a stretcher. Burgess paused a moment with Chris before following, which let her get as far as, “Listen, you. I thought we were done with—” before Dr. Cohen appeared.
“Did you clone yourself, Detective?” she asked.
“Don’t you ever go home?”
“Been home. Was home for hours. Don’t you ever sleep?”
Burgess introduced Chris and gave them both the short version of the night’s events. He didn’t get to finish before Chris and Sarita Cohen, like twins, said, “You need to get checked out.”