Reaper III: Rookies

by Amanda M. Holt

  As he pulled the car into the no parking zone, he continued, “This part of town looks a lot like what you’d see at the south end of Zone Six. This is gangland. Lots of thugs and drugs.”

  He parked the car in front of the building, shut off the engine and then turned in his seat to look at me closely, “Are you ready for this?”

  I hoped that I didn’t look as nervous as I felt.

  I was the wielder of the Dark Thing and had already sent more than my share of villains to their graves, yet the prospect of walking out of the squad car filled me with an odd sort of dread.

  Here I was, a police officer—on probation, no less—with stage fright.

  “As ready as I’m gonna be,” I replied, since he was expecting me to answer. “Gotta get my feet wet sometime and now’s as good a time as any.”

  He seemed satisfied with my reply and opened his driver’s side door. “Well then, let’s go.”

  I opened my door and stepped out, thinking to myself why does one small step feel like such a big deal?

  Resolving to get myself a pair of balls, I refused to hesitate any longer and stepped out of the squad car, into the cold of winter. My boots pressed the slush of the street underfoot and I took a deep breath of the cold air.

  I felt the weight of my gun beneath my winter coat.

  I felt the honor of having my last name embroidered in gold thread over my right breast and felt great pride in the badge pinned above my left breast.

  I looked at my partner, already at the front of the car and saw him grinning at me knowingly.

  “Coming?” He asked, feigning impatience.

  I said nothing, but felt my cheeks flush in response as I followed him all the way to the front door of the Lilydale Apartment Complex. The door was opened for us by an older grey haired Asian gentleman with thick glasses, who I correctly assumed was the building manager— the landlord.

  “Thank you for coming, officers,” he said and I secretly thrilled at having a civilian refer to me as an officer.

  “Are you the one who called in the dispute?” Phil asked him.

  “Yes,” he replied, rubbing his hands anxiously. He gestured for us to follow him. “This way—ground level, apartment six. They’re fighting again. I’m worried about property damage. They’re breaking things. I want to make sure there’s been no property damage.”

  He certainly seemed concerned about property damage—obviously his right.

  “We’ll check it out,” Phil tried to reassure the distraught man.

  He followed the manager and I followed him down the narrow hallway.

  I saw graffiti scratched and written into the walls here. They were more gangland signs and the occasional bit of profanity. The dim lighting made the yellow walls seem dirty somehow, making them look like they had been stained by tobacco smoke, or by some other means.

  It wasn’t long after we had stepped into the hallway that I heard it— a woman yelling at a man in what sounded like Tagalog, the language of the Phillipines. Her shriek of what was likely cursing was followed by the sound of wood splintering.

  Phil knocked on the door with the edge of his nightstick. “Police, ma’am! Open the door.”

  We heard the smash of glass on what was most likely a wall, followed up by a man’s awestruck swearing.

  “Fuck, bitch…you nearly hit me that time!”

  Again, Phil hammered on the door with the edge of his baton. “Police! Open the door, or we’ll open it for you and you will have to pay for the damages incurred.”

  “Damages?” Asked the building manager, horrified. ” No need for damages. I have key right here.”

  Phil winked at the Asian man, his voice barely above a whisper, “But they don’t know that.”

  There was a sound of movement coming from inside the apartment.

  “The police are here, Manny. You’re really gonna get it now,” came a woman’s voice, getting closer to the door.

  After the sound of the deadbolt sliding, the door swung open and a woman with a swollen lip, wild-looking eyes and matted hair stood there. She wore denim shorts and a stained t-shirt that had once been white.

  Her face was spotted with anxious sweat and she was clearly upset with her Manny.

  She pointed over her shoulder, back at the interior of the apartment. “That sonofabitch hit me.” She pointed at her swollen lip. “Right here. Take him to jail.”

  We heard the man, Manny, call out. “She started it.”

  A shirtless man with dark hair came rushing around the corner, holding a dishtowel to his head, apparently to staunch the blood flow.

  So, this was Manny. “The crazy bitch, she cut me with a plate, officers.”

  “I started it? You’re the one who was chatting online with that blond bitch Leah.” She looked back at us, her eyes wild with outrage. “I told him doing it on the computer was the same thing as cheating in real life and I told him it was the last straw and I told him to leave.” She gasped for a breath, “But this fucking loser wouldn’t budge. He told me to leave the apartment if I didn’t like it.” She turned around to glare at Manny. “So yes, that’s when I started breaking shit - and then, he fucking hit me!”

  Manny was incredulous, his eyes wide open with disbelief. “Because you snapped and cut my fucking head open when you threw that fucking plate, bitch.”

  Phil put his hand up, requesting a moment of silence. “Now, I’m willing to listen to everything you have to say, sir, but can you please quit calling her a bitch? It’s very inappropriate, isn’t it, Officer Bennet?”

  “Very,” I agreed. “Very inappropriate.”

  “Is that what happened?” Phil asked, of the bleeding man. “Is she telling the truth? You hit her after she hit you with the plate?”

  “Yeah, officer,” Manny said, adjusting the towel on his head. “Why?”

  Phil reached for the handcuffs on his duty belt. “Because I’m going to have to place you both under arrest, for assault, in your case,” he said to the woman and in turning to the man, added, “And for aggravated assault, in your case.”

  Phil looked at me and smiled. “Officer Bennet, you can place this woman under arrest.”

  “You are under arrest,” I began, unclipping the handcuffs from my duty belt. The words to her Miranda rights rolled off my tongue, right out my textbook from the Academy. “You have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

  “Aww, shit.” The woman turned around, putting her hands behind her back for me.

  She did it with the practiced look of someone who’d been through it before.

  Perhaps more than once.

  Securing the handcuffs around her wrists, I continued. “You have the right to talk to a lawyer and to have a lawyer present while you are being questioned…”

  -2-

  Having dropped the happy couple off at the station, as we got back into the squad car, Phil said something wonderful to me.

  “You handled that like an old pro, Sam. Cool and calm and nothin’ but class.”

  I beamed at my Training Officer.

  “Thanks, Phil.”

  “It’s time for our first coffee break. I know a place not too far from here. Bernie’s. You like tomatoes?”

  “Sure. As much as the next vegetable.”

  “Good.” He opened his car door, then unlocked mine. “They make the deadliest toasted tomato and bacon sandwich you’re ever going to eat, in about five minutes from the time you order. You simply have to try it to believe it.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I got back into the car.

  A short drive later, we were pulling into a small restaurant, sharing the parking lot with another squad car and two civilian automobiles.

  “I wonder who we’ve got here,” Phil wondered aloud, scratching his chin. He gazed past the windshield, into the small restaurant. “Looks like Sergeant Dawson and that Rookie, Officer Schroeder.”

  I glanced in
the direction that Phil was looking and saw two uniformed officers at a table near the doors, one a lot older than the other, both Caucasian males.

  The older one was lean and dark haired, with a trim moustache.

  The other one was blond haired with a solid build.

  From our position, I could not see his face, but I got a sense that the blond was probably attractive, from the way that the one waitress kept glancing at him.

  We left the car and made our way toward the front door. A bell chimed overhead and as we walked in, Phil tapped his boots on the carpet provided.

  Out of respect for the place, I did the same and knocked the snow from my duty boots.

  The long-legged waitress saw us first, her eyes lighting up at the sight of old Phil.

  “Phil,” she sang out to him, a warm smile on her face. “Your usual table?”

  He shook his head and approached the two officers right next to us.

  “I thought we might join Dawson and his Rookie, if they’ll have us.”

  “Sure thing,” said Dawson, moving over on the bench seat to provide room for Phil. “Have a sit-down.”

  The Rookie, Schroeder, looked up at me.

  A blue eyed gaze met a green one.

  We stared at each other, but were not staring each other down, as adversaries might.

  We were admiring each other, in the way that breathless way that men and women do, when someone fascinating has caught their interest.

  He made quite the first impression.

  He was attractive, all right – no two ways about it.

  As I looked into those clear Aegean blue eyes of his, I felt something stir within me.

  Something that was alien to me, but not in the way that the Dark Thing was unusual, something…arousing.

  Something female and primitive.

  Something that spoke to me of lust and desire…of very natural human hungers that longed to be sated.

  Time seemed to stop and I felt hung-up on that moment, breathless indeed, as though not sure what to do, or what to say.

  I felt a heat creep into my cheeks and I knew that the blond haired officer had noticed me staring at him.

  I saw a similar response in his cheeks, the faintest bit of blush warming the flesh of his clean-shaven face, the lobes of his ears...

  I looked away, breaking the spell and found myself looking instead at Phil, who was watching me closely.

  “Gentlemen, may I present to you Miss Samantha Bennet, the newest and brightest Rookie to join the City’s finest?” His intelligent brown eyes hadn’t missed the brief –and almost intimate –exchange between me and Schroeder. “It’s her first day in the car.”

  Dawson politely made brief introductions. “I’m Sergeant Dawson, this is Officer Neal Schroeder and might I recommend the toasted tomato and bacon?”

  “Already done,” said Phil, sliding in next to Sergeant Dawson.

  I dared to glance back at Neal, who was watching me intently, the slightest smile on his full masculine lips.

  I found myself wondering what it would be like to kiss those lips and taste him there…

  Would his kiss be aggressive or passive?

  Wet or dry?

  Demanding or yielding?

  Teasing or exploring?

  Oh no, I thought. Now he’s caught me looking at his lips.

  “Pleased to meet you.” We ended up saying, at the exact same time.

  I wondered if I looked as awkward as I felt.

  My blush intensified and I knew that my cheeks, pink from the cold of winter, would only barely mask my embarrassment.

  I felt the intriguing warmth uncoiling at my very core, an arousal that I was eagerly trying to wish away.

  “Likewise,” said Dawson.

  He was so engrossed in his sandwich he was oblivious to what was going on between me and his Rookie.

  Neal moved over in the booth, providing ample room for me to sit next to him.

  I finally felt able to breathe.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled simply and slid in next to him.

  For the briefest of moments, our thighs touched and I felt the warmth of his body so dramatically, it was as if an electrical shock had gone through my leg.

  I felt dazed.

  Dazed and uncertain and oh my God, what was that incredible smell?

  “And who is this?” The waitress asked Phil, with the briefest glance at me.

  “Brand new Rookie,” said Phil. “Officer Samantha Bennet. Bennet, say hello to Janine, the best damned waitress you’re ever gonna meet.”

  “Hi Janine,” I mumbled, trying to keep my cool.

  The heat of Neal’s body, so close to mine, was an intoxicant, an aphrodisiac, making me feel light-headed from the pleasurable sensation it brought me.

  My entire left side felt warm, almost humming with delight.

  “So, Phil, what can I get you?” The best damned waitress asked, producing a pen and a small notepad.

  “My usual. Coke and a Clubhouse. On white.”

  “I should have known,” she said and turned to me. “And for you, Rookie?”

  “I hear that your toasted tomato and bacon is pretty good. Is it?” I replied, mostly in knee-jerk reflex to her question, rather than in genuine debate.

  What good was food when all I could think about was having sex with Officer Neal Schroeder…someone I had just met?

  It was so unlike me, to have such a potent sexual craving.

  Due perhaps to the fact that I hadn’t had sex in several months?

  I wondered what it would be like, if the clothing between us were to disappear.

  If he were to take me on this very table, right in front of everyone, neither of us caring in the least, consumed with hunger for each other…

  “It’s to die for,” Neal agreed, his rich voice so deep and masculine that it had an almost musical quality to lull me.

  Was that a country accent I was hearing, or was it just my imagination?

  “Then I’ll have that. On rye bread. Oh and a glass of water.” I swallowed nervously, trying now to think of something other than sex with this beautiful stranger. I gave Phil an accusing glance. “Clubhouse and a Coke? I thought you were all gung-ho about the tomato and bacon.”

  “I said it was good, I didn’t say I was gonna have it.” He replied and winked at me.

  What the Hell, I wondered, is that wink about?

  “Did you read the paper this morning?” Dawson asked, glancing in Phil’s direction.

  Phil groaned. “Hell, no. You know I can’t stand the newspapers in this city.”

  “Sergeant, what’s wrong with the papers in this city?” I asked Phil, wondering if my question was naïve.

  “To be frank, Sam,” Phil said, choosing to call me Sam now. “I could go on for days about the papers in this town.”

  “A Coke and water,” said Janine, appearing out of nowhere to set them before us.

  “Thanks,” I said, wondering if my hand would tremble as I reached for it.

  Damn that Neal and his tantalizing scent.

  Was it his body that smelled so good, with that masculine musk of male vitality?

  My sensitive sense of smell told me that it was so.

  For Heaven’s sake, he smelled like temptation itself!

  “Thanks Janine.” Phil jabbed at the ice cubes in his Coke with his straw. “The papers. Shit – there have been a few times where I’ve been involved in a case and when the media runs with it in print, they always seem to screw up the details. They seem to have a knack for inaccuracy. On top of that, it seems like every other week they’re printing some exaggerated story about police misconduct, excessive force or police brutality, or some other such nonsense.”

  Dawson nodded. “Like remember that time you and Carrington were investigated by Internal Affairs for excessive use of force?”

  “Everything was done like it was right out of a fucking textbook.” Phil seemed irritated by the memory. “We never laid a finger on that perp, ex
cept to restrain him and get him in the car. Police brutality my arse.” He sucked back some of his Coke. “IA was up our ass for the better part of a month for it, too, before they dropped the case.”

  Dawson laughed. “But the newspapers ran with that story for what…four months?”

  “Something like that,” Phil growled. “In reality, we of course know that they could have filled a whole damned paper with the positive things that officers do in this city in a single hour.”

  “He’s not kidding,” said Dawson.

  Phil looked at me and then looked at Neal. “If you two kids are going to stick with this gig, as police officers, prepare to get fucking shredded by the media. Get ready to get really pissed off at the stories they will run with about you and your brothers and sisters in blue.”

  “That’s why Phil only reads the tabloids,” Dawson added and wiped his fingers clean on a napkin.

  “Exactly,” Phil continued.

  “Ask him why.” Dawson winked at me.

  “Why tabloids, Phil?”

  My partner sighed. “I’m telling you guys, there’s more truth in them tabloids than you’d think. They’re not just a bunch of tall tales about crop circles and celebrity zombies, you know.”

  “Speaking of tall tales,” Dawson teased Phil, “The reason I asked if you read the paper is the Wild Animal Killer struck again last night.”

  The Wild Animal Killer.

  I kept my mouth shut, but my thoughts were racing.

  They were talking about me and the name that the media had established to lend a sense of ownership to the attacks I made, with the Dark Thing.

  There were times I considered sending an anonymous letter or phone call into the newspapers, to tell them to quit running with the Wild Animal line, but I kept changing my mind.

  It was better that I let them print what they wanted, rather than risk getting involved.

  It was better to let them think that I was a deranged killer on the loose, than for them to know the truth – that I was a twenty-three year old police officer with an evening vigilante gig.