“Thanks. I think.”
“You think? We’ll have none of that. If you’re starting to think too hard about what you do or why you do it, then it’s time to get out of this line of work.”
“You’re rougher on me than my teammates.”
“That’s because they’re all afraid of you, sweetheart, and I’m not.”
Jacob raised up, kissed her forehead and smiled.
She held him at arm’s length and asked, “Are we clear?”
It was a line from A Few Good Men. And they used it privately to make sure they were each okay. That whatever bump they had navigated around was safely behind them.
Jake gave the correct answer. He said, “Crystal.”
“Good, because the rest of us need guys like you out there watching over us. I feel safer already.”
Jill cuddled close to him again.
“You’re very good at this.”
“Can I show you something I’m even better at?”
“Sure, teacher. Give me a minute.”
Jacob set the coffee cup on the table, and headed for the bedroom.
Jill grabbed the coffee for herself. She settled back into the couch and took a sip. She was pretty sure it was the regular caffeinated brew. She could tell. The decaf just didn’t taste the same. Oh well. It didn’t really matter. All that mattered was that the wand had been waved. Presto chango. Alakazam. The magic was done. The abnormal was now normal.
They were clear. Crystal.
She turned up the volume on the movie. She liked this part. Charles Laughton had just confessed that he was creating the beast men as evolutionary experiments, and he asked the young guy who was stranded on the island, “Do you know what it means to feel like God?” Rob Zombie had made a song using that line. Jill liked Rob Zombie. She liked this movie, too. But she did not know that Donovan “The Builder” Carpenter and a petty criminal whose meth-fouled mind had driven him to the worst crime of all, had both had this phrase in their heads earlier tonight.
* * *
In the bedroom, Jacob opened the door of the walk-in closet that he and Jill shared. He retrieved a small lockbox from a high shelf. It had been concealed under a stack of sweaters he seldom wore. The shelf was too high for Jill to be able to see what was on it, much less use. He supposed that if she wanted to she could stand on a chair to snoop around. To see if he kept anything up there besides seasonal clothes and boxes of ammunition. But Jill wasn’t like that. And he supposed that if she found the lockbox in the midst of an uncharacteristic fit of spring cleaning, that it could intrigue her enough to ask him what was in it. But Jill wasn’t like that. And he further supposed that if Jill somehow stumbled across the box, asked him about it, and wasn’t satisfied with his answer, she could wait until he was asleep and locate the key on his key ring (he hadn’t married a stupid woman—far from it) and unlock the box so that she could see for herself what it held. But Jill wasn’t like that.
Jacob took the metal box with him into the master bathroom and locked the door.
He turned on the shower. He told himself it was to let the water get hot, but really he knew it was to mask his sounds in case Jill came into the bedroom.
He unlocked the box and pulled out the only thing it contained. A small nylon drawstring bag. It was an old jewelry pouch. But this bag did not contain jewelry. Well, of a sort, perhaps.
Jacob loosened the drawstring and dumped the contents onto the vanity, where the spent cartridge shells it contained tumbled and clattered. Even though there was no reason to do so, Jacob counted them. Of course he knew how many there were. There were sixteen of them. Jacob reached into his pants pocket and pulled out the shell from that night’s kill. He studied it a moment as though the object might impart some hitherto unconsidered insight or wisdom. But it did not. He then tossed it on the counter where it dinged and danced before settling with the others. He considered his macabre collection for a moment, perhaps in the hope that if a single brass shell would not give up its secrets, then as a group, they might have something to say. But they did not.
He wasn’t even sure why he saved them, what they represented to him. Maybe they were souls of the people he had killed. But souls should get lighter, not heavier. These were more like links in a chain. They were heavy, weighing him down, dragging him under. If he kept adding to it, the chain might eventually break him.
Then again, that could all just be a load of bullshit.
He scooped them up and returned them to the bag, and returned the bag to the box. He locked the box.
In the mirror, he watched his reflection as it was swallowed by the white steam from the shower.
* * *
The movie was over, and Jill had switched out the coffee for wine. She had a glass for each of them on the living room table. She took a sip from her glass and looked up to see Jacob framed in the bedroom doorway. Freshly scrubbed and wearing nothing except a towel wrapped around his middle.
Jill went to him and moved into his open arms. They kissed. She yanked off his towel and held it up to him.
“Lesson one. Lose the towel.”
CHAPTER 5
The squad room was filled with regular duty officers pouring cups of morning coffee and taking seats for roll call. Those who also happened to serve on the SWAT team were here on little or no sleep. They had the option of taking the day off, but preferred to get the hours. Overtime was scarce.
Sergeant Heidler sat at the front desk writing on a clipboard. Cowell’s diagram from last night’s debriefing was still on the blackboard.
Jacob grabbed some coffee and pulled out a chair next to Kathryn, who looked up, quite bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
“Hey partner. Short night, huh? Did you sleep? I couldn’t sleep. I was still so pumped from last night.”
“Are you always like this?”
“Like what?”
Jacob stared at Kathryn.
“Eager. Are you always this eager?”
“Hell yes. Thought that was why you picked me for your team.”
“Eager is not a desirable trait for a sniper. Think about it.”
At the front, Heidler said, “All right ladies and gentlemen, listen up.”
The room fell silent. Kathryn leaned closer to Jacob and whispered, “So why’d you pick me?”
Jacob ignored her.
Heidler continued, “Let’s get through these items quickly so you can all get right out onto the streets to maximize those taxpayer dollars.”
There were a couple of chuckles and a few groans from the officers.
“First item. We’ve had another death threat on Captain Bryant.”
Several officers raised their hands or nodded.
“That was me.”
“Right here.”
“I did it.”
Heidler ignored them.
“This latest threat now includes his family.”
This sobered them up. Violence and the possibility of a violent death was the day-to-day reality of these men and women. They accepted it. They made light of it. It was the life they had chosen. Families, though, were off limits.
“Let’s step up those extra patrols around the captain’s house. If you’re not on a call, swing by.”
Heidler flipped a page on his clipboard and continued.
“As most of you already know, our SWAT team had a call-out last night where they effectively neutralized one more menace to society, thereby making the world a safer place for all of us.”
This earned some non-ironic hoots, whistles, and applause from everyone but the perpetually sour Deputy Billy Simon, a tall, gangly cop whose duty belt seemed to weigh more than he did. Simon had applied for SWAT three times, specifically as a spotter—a sniper in training—and had three times been turned down. Simon was a hell of a shot, an amazing shot, maybe even better than Jacob, but as Jacob had told Lieutenant Cowell, marksmanship was only half of it. Probably less than half.
The latest insult, for Simon, had been when Sesak was taken in from an
other jurisdiction, and brought on the team as a spotter. It truly was a slap in the face. Simon had taken to needling Jacob, both out of resentment at not being accepted to the team, and as proof to the others that he was not scared or intimidated by Jacob Denton.
“Hey, Fuckin’Denton, how many notches on the old gunstock is that anyway?”
Jacob ignored him. Everybody called him Fuckin’Denton, but Simon always gave it an extra little sneer the way he said it.
Deputy Hank Baker slid a piece of paper and a pen toward Kathryn and asked, “Can I have your autograph?”
Kathryn started to take the pen, but Jacob grabbed her hand. The officers erupted in laughter. Deputy Simon stood up.
“Now boys, this is no laughing matter. Suppose our friend Deputy Denton here should snap,” Simon said, snapping his fingers to illustrate the point. “Like our last sniper did? It could get ugly.”
Jacob’s jaw tightened. Kathryn glanced from Jacob to Simon, and the look on her face made it clear she didn’t know what Simon was talking about.
“You haven’t heard this? You’re kidding. That last sniper we had, what the hell was his name?”
“Lee Staley,” Baker said. “Oz.”
“Right. Oswald.”
“Oswald?” Kathryn asked.
Simon said, “Lee Staley. Lee Harvey Oswald. Get it? As in crazy motherfucker with a gun.”
Jacob glared at Simon. He was getting pissed. Oz was family as far as Jacob was concerned. And you don’t fuck with a man’s family.
Heidler, who gave his deputies a great deal of latitude during these roll calls, felt the atmosphere darken.
“Boys. Play nice.”
Simon said, “Hey Sergeant, I think Sesak should hear this.”
Baker agreed and said, “Sure she should. Nice and quick, eh, Sarge?”
Simon launched into it before Heidler could say one way or the other. “Oswald’s on this routine call-out, right? Hostage situation, gun to some lady’s head. He gets the green light, takes the shot, hits the suspect, but…”
“But what?”
Simon made a gun of his thumb and forefinger and placed it against Kathryn’s temple.
“But the suspect’s hand jerked when the bullet hit him and he pulled the trigger anyway.”
Simon pulled the trigger on his pretend gun, his hand rocking in mock recoil hard enough to pivot Sesak’s head.
“Blew her fucking brains all over her color-coordinated kitchen.”
Kathryn looked to Jacob for confirmation. He shrugged. It was true.
The squad room was quiet now. Jacob tapped his right trigger finger on the table. It sounded like a metronome.
Jacob looked at Simon and said, “Feel better?”
Simon didn’t answer, but he closed his hand and put it in his pocket. He’d fallen under Jacob’s sniper glare. All that could be heard was the tapping of Jacob’s trigger finger.
Baker said, “Hell, Denton, it happened. You can’t deny Oswald lost his mind after that. They had to retire him.”
Simon said, “Seems a hell of a lot more natural than someone who can kill like—”
Heidler had had enough and said, “Simon, will you shut the fuck up for Chrissakes?” He turned to Kathryn and said, “And that’s why we call Billy here Simple Simon.”
“Yeah, well, Simon says every last one of you can kiss my ass.”
Heidler let it go and said, “All right, enough of this bullshit. Next item is serious. I’m sure everyone also knows that we lost an officer last night. His name was Donovan Carpenter. Patrolled Zone Four, graveyard. I knew him, and I’m sure some of you did, too. He was a good cop. I’m taking up the collection for his family.”
Heidler held up an empty coffee can.
“I expect every one of you to give and give big.”
Most all of the deputies unlimbered their wallets and formed a line in front of Heidler.
CHAPTER 6
Kathryn drove the patrol unit, and Jacob rode shotgun.
“How come you never told me?”
“We’re scheduled for sniper training later today. Did you bring your gear?”
“Yeah, I brought my fucking gear. Did you hear what I said?”
“I heard you.”
“Well?”
“It wasn’t something you needed to know. Take a right at the next light.”
“One of your partners goes 51–50, out on a psych retirement and you didn’t think I needed to know?”
Not even a shrug.
“I don’t get you at all. Fuckin’Denton.”
“You wouldn’t be the first.”
When the unit stopped at a traffic light, Jacob turned to look at Kathryn.
“Do you realize that what you’ve decided to do with your life is kill people?”
“Yeah, bad guys.”
“Killing’s killing.”
“Well, goddamn, Captain Sunshine, no wonder your partners flake out.”
Jacob cracked a smile at that.
“Green light.”
“What do you mean?”
“The light. It’s green.”
Kathryn looked ahead, then started forward but caught herself and turned right. She could have turned right on the red in California, but she had been focusing on Jake’s words.
“If I was driving and you told me the light was green, I wouldn’t have checked to be sure. That’s the kind of relationship we need to have.”
“I get you. And it’s not like I want to kill people.”
“You don’t? That’s what we do. You better want to do it. Turn left here.”
Morgan City abruptly faded, and the environment shifted from city to country. No buffer. They were heading into Vista Canyon.
“Aren’t we supposed to be patrolling Zone Six? We’re going the wrong way.”
“Extra patrol for Bryant or did you just not listen to briefing? Bad sign. Too much in your head at once?”
Now Kathryn went silent. Busted.
Jacob hated going into Vista Canyon on patrol. A lot of it had to do with Jill’s tree. But the tree was just a symbol of what was wrong here. He found Vista Canyon to be a bizarre collection of strip malls and banks and rich-people mansions all in a country setting, but their owners failed to notice that those expensive houses were of generic cookie cutter designs and packed into the canyon merely a few feet apart. Tenements for the wealthy. Tract housing for the upper echelons of management.
This was where Sacramento County yielded to Cameron County, with Folsom a mile back, just over the county line. The canyon was a wedge of prime real estate where Sacramento people moved to feel rugged and rural, and Morgan City people moved to feel suburban and affluent. Folsomites were quite happy where they were.
For police management like Captain Bryant, who called Vista Canyon home, that address on the mailbox came with the knowledge that though they were still county employees, they had reached a new plateau.
Jacob genuinely hated it here. It was the rich people who always gave him the most trouble. They were the ones who complained about stuff that wasn’t important and never failed to tell responding officers, “I pay your salary! You work for me! You tell those kids in that cul-de-sac to stop playing basketball!” Jacob would rather have dealt with the Deliverance-people in the high country than face rich-people condescension any day.
Most of the upper echelon moved to this suburb as they were promoted to ranks like detective sergeant, or lieutenant and on up—whether they could afford it or not. Vista Canyon was still technically within their jurisdiction, but it couldn’t have been further away from its Gold Country roots.
Still, Captain Bryant lived here and Jacob would never forget a former SWAT team member, no matter what. He would have headed this way without the sergeant’s order. They were like the military in that way. A brotherhood of the elite few.
“What I’m saying is I’ve got a skill that I want to put to good use. We’re the good guys, they’re the bad guys. You don’t need a philosophy deg
ree to figure it out. It’s pretty cut and dried.”
“Do you have any idea how many guys on the job can plug a dime at one hundred yards? That ‘skill’ is common as dirt. Except that they’re shooting at targets. We’re shooting at people. It’s what’s going on up here that matters. You shoot with your head, not your heart.”
“That makes no sense. I shoot with my eye and my finger. What does my heart have to do with anything?”
“It means the second you start thinking about it, you over-think it. The guy in your sights, does he deserve to die? Does he have a family? What led to this? And what about the times the situation changes a split second before you fire? Because that can happen. What if the guy gives up just as you’ve started to squeeze the trigger? Another second and you would have ended his life. It can be that close. And you might spend your evening thinking about the other times you’ve put down a target, and you’ll wonder, what if I’d waited just a second longer? He might’ve given up. But what if you’d waited that extra second, and the hostage died? The ‘what-if’s’ will eat at you.”
He could see Kathryn was at least considering what he was saying. It wasn’t really Jacob’s nature to get mystical, Master Po and Grasshopper, but he’d had a variation of this conversation with every spotter he’d ever worked with.
“And thinking about the hostage can paralyze you completely. Once you’re in your heart, you’re done. Yes, sometimes you’ve got clear-cut bad guys. The true predators. The wolves. Then you’ve got the Average Joe just having a really shitty day. What about him? Are you okay with taking out somebody’s jealous husband who’s never been violent before? Are you gonna feel okay running a bullet through somebody’s grandpa who’s having a bad reaction to his antibiotics?”
“So it’s not always cut and dried.”
“It’s not your job to decide. Some asshole pulls a gun on you, it’s kill or be killed. Self-preservation. And still there are some guys who can’t handle even that. There are some cops who shoot a suspect in the line of duty. A clean shot. And they never come back from it. This is the deliberate targeting of a human being and keeping him in your crosshairs anywhere from ten seconds to ten days. You never know when that green light is coming. You’ve got plenty of time to wonder if maybe you should’ve gotten that philosophy degree after all.”
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