Not a Hero

by Cherise Sinclair

  The other night, when he, Bull, and Caz had grilled outside, he’d kept waiting for Mako’s gruff comments. His death had left such a big hole behind.

  “Dammit,” Gabe said under his breath. “I miss you, Sarge.”

  In the chicken yard, the rooster spotted Gabe and crowed a challenge. Caz had bought the flock from a prepper who was moving back to Missouri. Alaska winters, not for the faint-hearted.

  Over the last couple of days, Gabe had worked on repairing the coop to keep out weasels. This afternoon, his day off, he’d start on the garden. There was something calming about planting, he had to admit. Baumer volunteered to work the late Friday through Sunday shifts, so Gabe had weekdays, and the state troopers would cover the rest.

  Until things were under control, Gabe’d be putting in a lot more than full-time.

  A few minutes later, Gabe backed the Jeep out of the garage and punched the remote to close the garage door, then grinned. Mako’s idea of high tech had been a coffee maker, and the paranoid old survivalist would’ve preferred the cabins wall-to-wall with only tiny, sniper-sized windows. It’d almost turned into a war. Gabe had been damned if he’d give up that gorgeous view of the lake and mountains. To keep the peace, they’d put closable shutters on the huge windows, electric fencing between the cabins to make the compound bear and moose proof, and used a solar and battery-operated pump on the well.

  When the power went off a few years ago, they’d been warm, dry, and fed…thanks to Mako’s foresight.

  Gabe grinned. That’s when they’d discovered that Mako had dug out the root cellars beneath each cabin, creating one long tunnel tying each house together. In case of war. As Gabe drove down the tiny gravel road, he shook his head fondly. The sarge’d been one paranoid bastard.

  At the intersection of Lake Road and Swan Avenue, he slowed as he passed Dante’s rentals.

  The lights were on in Julie’s place.

  Dammit. When he’d driven Julie home last night, he’d figured on getting her keys so he could fetch her car from the bar. So much for good intentions.

  After opening the police station and making coffee, he checked the log. Officer Baumer had taken witness reports from the people in the bar, but hadn’t located the asshole who’d slapped Julie. It seemed the man had left town.

  Gabe growled.

  Nothing particularly interesting in the log.

  One moose killed by a truck. Baumer had called the Alaska Moose Federation to deliver it to the next name on the list. Someone would have plenty of meat this year.

  A drunk had joined a bunch of toms serenading a female cat in heat. Apparently, the nearest neighbor had been unimpressed with the music. Maybe there should be an infraction called drunk and discordant as well as drunk and disorderly.

  Baumer had written that a few unhappy customers created a ruckus when Bull closed the bar at 2 a.m. By Alaska law, the place could remain open until 5 a.m. Fat chance. Gabe grinned. His brother liked sleep too much to stay open into the morning hours.

  Staccato loud noises brought Gabe to his feet, heart pounding. Gripping his pistol butt, he scanned the room. Wait, no, it wasn’t gunfire.

  Someone was pounding on the back door. “Gabe, you in here?”

  Stand down. Gabe exhaled, long and slow, and went to open the door.

  “Hey, boy.” Dante strolled in followed by two teenage boys carrying a long crate. The man pointed to the center of the bullpen. “Put it on the floor there and fetch the rest.”

  After the kids brought in several more crates, Dante passed them some money and shooed them out. He told Gabe, “I was here when the station closed down and took charge of the contents. I figured you might want these back.”

  Gabe leaned against a desk and eyed the boxes. They were the right size for… “The armory?”

  “Yep.”

  As they pulled off the lids, a variety of weaponry and ammunition was revealed. Handguns, rifles, shotguns.

  Dante pointed to two 12-gauge shotguns and two AR-15 rifles. “Those were department issue. The officers used their own personal handguns—they won’t be here. All the rest is shit the department confiscated over the years.”

  “Good enough. This’ll help my budget.” The ammunition would be around a decade old. Might be all right depending on where it was stored, but he’d order new and test out the old. The beanbag rounds for the shotgun would come in useful for wildlife. “Thanks, Dante. Any other surprises up your sleeve?”

  “One big one, yeah.” Dante settled into a chair next to the coffee pot. “Something me an’ Sarah arranged. The council appointed us to setup and oversee the police force.” The old guy grinned. “Be grateful; you almost had Parrish watching over your shoulder. But since he voted against reopening the station, he wasn’t given direct oversight.”

  “Parrish… Reverend Parrish?”

  Dante poured himself a cup of coffee. “Yep.”

  “I saw him in the coffee shop the other day. Interesting to see an armed clergyman.”

  Dante had a distinctive heh-heh-heh raspy laugh. “That “clergyman” is the founder of the Patriot Zealots.”

  What the…? “Do you mean someone like David Koresh? Religious antigovernment paramilitary?”

  “Yep.”

  “Oh wonderful.” Gabe rubbed the back of his neck.

  “See, aren’t you glad Parrish isn’t in charge of the station?”

  “You have my undying gratitude.” Fanatics. Rescue had armed fanatics, including one on the town council. Gabe shook his head. “So what’s this big surprise you and Sarah set up?”

  “Should arrive today. Sarah has friends on the Anchorage PD—and they helped us lease a police vehicle. SUV. All wheel drive to deal with our shit roads. Nothing fancy, mostly standard equipment with a few things Sarah’s cop friends recommended.”

  Gabe started to smile. Things were looking up. “Unmarked or—”

  “Nope. Black and white. Lights and sirens, cage in the back. Fun stuff.” Dante grinned.

  “I’ll be damned. That really is good news. Thank you.” He and Baumer’s shifts only overlapped on Fridays so one car was adequate. “We really needed an official vehicle.”

  “A man needs the tools to do the job. Let’s get your weaponry locked up.” Dante pushed to his feet with a groan. “By the way, I heard the new craft store got spray-painted.”

  “Well, hell.” After he and Dante got the weapons stored in the gun vault, he walked the Okie out.

  Not fifteen minutes later, the new patrol car was delivered.

  And damn, the Ford Police Interceptor was well stocked.

  He had to grin because it felt like…like break-up when Mako’d bring them all to town to get supplies. So damned exciting.

  In addition to normal vehicle supplies, the cargo area drawer had police equipment like body armor, evidence kits and bags, yellow tarp, and police tape. There was no ambulance in town, so he wasn’t surprised to see first responder supplies like a car-opening kit, fire extinguisher, first aid kit, emergency blankets, latex gloves, and portable defibrillator. Being as this was Alaska, bad weather gear was essential, and the car was equipped with chemical hand warmers, heavy flashlight, emergency food and water. There were also supplies for highway accidents—tape measure, HAZMAT suit, bolt cutters, traffic cones, flares and vest, breathalyzer, and shovel.

  Nice job, Dante and Sarah. They’d done well by him.

  Gabe added extra ammo and a paperwork box, stored the AR-15 and shotgun in the interior rack, and climbed in.

  Jesus, it even had that new car smell—along with the underlying smell of gun oil. It took him a second to wipe off the big grin and put an appropriate serious police chief expression on his face as he pulled out and drove out of town.

  He drove the back roads for a while before returning onto Main Street.

  And there was the graffiti.

  Garish red lettering “GO HOME” was painted on a pale yellow storefront.

  Anger simmered in his gut.

>   Mako had bought this building last year, and Bull had just leased it to a couple of sisters from Juneau. They planned to open an art gallery and craft store, specializing in Alaskan-created goods.

  They sure didn’t deserve this kind of shit.

  Gabe snapped the SUV into a diagonal parking space and headed for the store.

  Obviously seeing him coming, a stout, brown-haired woman bustled out. A quilt decorated with bears, moose, and bald eagles was bundled in her arms. She studied his uniform shirt for a moment. “Oh, excellent. You must be the new police chief.”

  He held out his hand. “I’m Gabe MacNair. Mrs. Johannsen, isn’t it?”

  “Ms. or even better, Glenda.” She motioned to the spray-painting. “Do you see what someone did?”

  “I see.” His jaw clenched. So much for the hope that a local police presence would discourage vandalism.

  On the contrary. This felt like the asshole was thumbing his nose at the cops.

  And the business.

  The two new owners were in their fifties, both divorced, both hard-working businesswomen—and artists, as well. In Juneau, one had owned an art gallery, the other a craft store. What kind of asshole picked on women like this?

  The red paint was garish, the sentiments clear. “Someone either isn’t happy about increasing tourist traffic and-or hates seeing the town change at all.

  She gave a sniff of displeasure. “Too late now. He should’ve kept the ski resort from opening if he felt that strongly.”

  “Too late to put the cork back in that bottle. I’ll see if Bull can free up a construction worker to repaint your storefront.”

  “That would be wonderful.”

  And he’d recommend that Mako’s trust cover the expense. Not that he’d mention that to Glenda. He and Caz wanted Bull to remain as the front man for the trust. It helped that very few people had ever met Mako or knew about his kids.

  Although Glenda’s scowl had disappeared, a line appeared between her eyes. “Do you think the vandalism will keep happening?”

  Optimism gone, he eyed the graffiti. “So it seems. However, I plan to install some security cameras.” Gabe motioned toward the streetlight outside Dante’s store. “We’ll cover high-target areas, including your store. No one will be monitoring real-time, but we should be able to identify the culprit.”

  “That’s very reassuring. Thank you, Gabe.”

  After a disconcerted moment, he headed back to the patrol car. No civilian in a city would call him by his first name. But he rather liked Glenda’s informality.

  A shame he was so unfamiliar with small towns. Growing up, they hadn’t been part of town life. Mako’d taken them into Seward only a few times a year for groceries, the post office, or home schooling checkups.

  As he started to unlock the patrol car, a shout drew his attention.

  Turning, he huffed a laugh.

  A moose was sauntering down Grebe Avenue. After crossing Main, it stopped to nibble on a young budding tree.

  Only in Alaska...

  Outside the coffee shop, three tourists bounced up and down with excitement. “A moose! Right in town!”

  A couple of old-timers heading into the grocery paused, probably in hopes of a bloody human-versus-moose battle.

  Attracted by the commotion, more people exited the coffee shop—followed by Baumer.

  The officer noticed Gabe and loped across the street, detouring widely around the moose. He skidded to a stop and stared at the patrol car. “Lookee there. Is that ours?”

  “It is. Whoever’s on duty gets the vehicle, otherwise it’ll be in the parking lot in case one of us gets called in. Your keys are on your desk.”

  After opening the cargo door, Gabe grabbed the shotgun and loaded it with beanbag ammo.

  Baumer’s eyes narrowed. “You look like you know what you’re doing.”

  Jesus, the officer acted like Gabe’d never seen a moose before, let alone dealt with one. Then again, Baumer might not know more than Gabe had served in the LAPD as a lieutenant.

  “Oh-oh,” Baumer muttered.

  Gabe turned to see two young men and a woman headed straight for the moose. “Oh, hell.”

  “Tourists.” Baumer snorted. “They’re dumber than rocks.”

  “They’re from Outside. Probably think moose are as skittish as deer.” Gabe raised his voice. “You three. Get back to the sidewalk, or I’ll arrest you for jaywalking.”

  “That’s a threat?” Baumer asked in disbelief.

  “It is in the city.”

  “Guess you’d know, wouldn’t you?” The comment fell…just…short of being insulting.

  The three tourists dutifully trotted back to the sidewalk and turned, phones out and recording. The wide eyes and expressions of wonder made him remember his first moose sighting.

  Twenty-some years ago at Mako’s old cabin. He and Hawk had dashed straight toward the animal before realizing how big the damn thing was. And that it didn’t like them at all. They’d run even faster the other direction. Thank God, it’d only chased them a short distance.

  The sarge had laughed his ass off.

  Would probably be laughing now.

  Pushing the grief aside, Gabe turned his attention to work.

  If the moose kept moving down Grebe Avenue, it’d reach the lake. That would be good. If it stopped here in town, well, wildlife on Main Street was an invitation to disaster.

  “You going to shoot him, Officer?” one person yelled.

  Gaze on the loudmouth, the animal halted in the center of the street. Its ears went back. The hair on its spine rose. Moose were exceedingly territorial about their space.

  Pointing at the spectators, Gabe shouted, “You people move back half a block. Now, now, now.”

  “Good idea.” Baumer turned to the two observers on the left side of the street and yelled the same instructions.

  As people retreated, the moose’s ears came up.

  Better.

  Baumer motioned to the shotgun. “You’d better let me handle this.”

  Not bothering to answer, Gabe strolled into the street until directly behind the beast. “Go, you idiot,” he muttered at the moose. “Visit the lake.”

  Instead, the damn thing headed straight toward the noisy tourists.

  Shit. Before it got too close to them, Gabe fired the shotgun. The beanbag nailed it in the right ass, and he shot again. Another hit.

  Startled, the moose jolted forward, turning leftward to escape the stinging “insects.” Once it started moving, the animal continued down Grebe Avenue.

  “Have a nice day at the lake, Bullwinkle.” As Gabe returned to the SUV, he chuckled. Damned if the spectators weren’t cheering as if he’d made a touchdown.

  Still beside the car, Baumer studied him. “Nice job, Chief.”

  “This time.” Gabe stowed the shotgun. “Let’s hope this isn’t a regular route for him.”

  “Might be. I’ve seen him here before.” Baumer turned to look down the street. “Idiots. You should’ve let him kick a couple of them.”

  Gabe gave him a look. “That’s not the job.”

  “No, guess not.” The officer’s grin reappeared. “You know, I kinda wanted the chief job, but not if it means sucking up to Outsiders.”

  “Unfortunately, it means sucking up to everyone.”

  Baumer barked a laugh. “Never thought of it that way, but guess so.”

  Maybe the officer’s attitude explained his slow promotions in the past. Closing the cargo door, Gabe pointed at the graffiti defacing the craft store. “Last night, did you notice anyone downtown?”

  “No. That must’ve happened after I went off shift.”

  “Probably so.” A shame Gabe didn’t have enough staff for round-the-clock coverage of town. The cameras would help. “By the way, I plan to get—”

  Baumer interrupted, “What are you doing on duty today? I thought Saturday was my day on, your day off.”

  “I’m putting in extra hours until things are caugh
t up.”

  “Hard on your wife and kids.”

  “Divorced, no kids.” Three brothers. No father. The sorrow was still a hollow ache around his heart. “And you?”

  “I got a wife and a couple of little boys. Still in diapers.” As Baumer leaned against the SUV, settling in like a true southerner for a spate of gossip, Gabe felt…crowded. Enough already. He checked his watch. Two o’clock. “You’re on in an hour. After you start, take some time to familiarize yourself with the SUV and then keep an eye on downtown and the tourists.”

  Baumer blinked and straightened. “Will do.”

  As they parted, Gabe headed for the coffee shop. He fucking needed some coffee.

  Inside, a few locals were at the counter, getting refills after the show. The hippie gas station owner looked up from choosing a pastry to give Gabe a nod.

  And there was Julie. Her golden hair brightened the dimly lit back corner where she sat. Her laptop was on the table, and, after a glance at him, she focused on her work. The tension in her shoulders said she didn’t want to talk with him.

  Just as well. This wasn’t the place to deliver an apology. He wasn’t sure how to phrase the sentiment anyway. Sorry your lies pissed me off.

  With an exasperated grunt, he moved to the counter.

  “Good afternoon, Chief.” Behind the huge coffee-making apparatus, Sarah held up a to-go cup. “Drip again?”

  “Thanks. My last cup was a lifetime ago.”

  “Some days are like that.” After passing him his coffee, she rested her hands on the counter and straightened—a private preparing to give report to the sergeant.

  “Yes?” He eyed her as he took a sip.

  “The man who slapped Julie last night. His name is Keaton. He’s a member of that cult—the PZs.”

  “The who?”

  “Patriot Zealots.” Her mouth twisted with repugnance. “Captain Nabera, Parrish’s second-in-command was also at the table. The older black-haired man. I didn’t recognize the other two, but the population out at the PZ farm changes constantly.”

  “Keaton. Got it, thank you.”