by Frank Zafiro
Panic crept in, starting at my gut and working its way high up into my chest, like a shout that was ready to burst out of my mouth. I held it inside, though. Instead, I focused on keeping up a calm exterior. That’s what they teach you in the academy and during all of the in-service training sessions. Stay calm. Because fear will fuck you up.
I knew who Bull was now. Maybe not exactly, but he was family to Taylor. That much was clear. At least that was one mystery solved. That meant Taylor would be safe again.
As for Faina…well, I would do my best to take care of that.
The air around me had a thick quality to it, making it difficult for sound to cut through.
I blinked.
Swallowed.
The shouting was getting louder. Near the door, I saw two uniform cops, guns drawn, eyes sweeping the room. The blue-gray uniform of the state patrol was familiar but the round campaign hats were unmistakable.
I smiled in spite of it all. Even running into a gunfight, the staties still took the time to put on their signature hats. Talk about habit.
I reached weakly into my front pocket with my left hand and gripped the hard metal of my badge. My gun hand still clutched my pistol and I knew it would only be a few moments before the troopers noticed it.
The badge slid easily out of my pocket. I kept my fist wrapped tightly around it.
“Sit me up,” I told Bull.
“What?” He leaned his head in closer to me. “I can’t hear you.”
“Sit me up,” I repeated, louder. “And then do….everything they tell you to do.”
He nodded at me, his expression grave. Then he pulled me into a sitting position. My back pressed against his front. The heat of his body radiated into mine, pushing against the cold that was settling there. It felt good.
Our movement caught the eye of one of the troopers. He covered us with his nine millimeter and shouted, “Show me your hands!”
Bull shifted slowly behind me, raising his hands up. I couldn’t gather enough strength to raise my right hand, and wouldn’t have anyway. Not with a gun in it. But I lifted the badge up into the air, my fingers wrapped around its edges. The motion was slow and measured, so he didn’t mistake the silver badge for a weapon.
The trooper’s eyes narrowed. He took two shuffling steps toward us, his pistol still covering us both. Then two more steps. He leaned forward, peering at the badge.
My arm began to tremble.
“Jesus,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “You’re a cop?”
I nodded my head. “Spokane PD.”
He shook his head. “What?”
I didn’t have the energy to repeat myself.
“She said she’s Spokane Police,” Bull said from behind me, his voice booming and strong. “And she’s been shot.”
The trooper nodded, but his expression remained cautious. “What’s going on here?”
Bull answered for me again. “She saved these two girls,” he said. “Saved them from those assholes with assault rifles over there.”
The trooper didn’t turn around. His gaze drifted down to the gun in my right hand, then to my face.
I nodded at him.
I did. I saved them.
I tried to tell him that, but no words came out. Instead, the muscles in my arm quivered, and my badge slowly dropped until it collapsed into my lap.
TWENTY-NINE
Bull
The shock hadn’t worn off. Sitting in the backseat of the Dodge cruiser with my niece inches from me, I rested my head on the headrest.
How fast Gus-Goose had died. Like the blood seeping from both of us, she’d taken any possible chance for an ever-after between us with her.
And she’d died.
I wasn’t the crying type, never had been, but the speed with which we’d entered each other’s lives and then the way she’d disappeared in my arms, like… I tilted my head down, wiping at the moisture in the corner of my eyes with the thumb and forefinger of my uninjured hand.
A cop. A frigging cop. The signs had been there, but, I’d been too caught up in my own games, my emergencies to really put the clues together.
Taylor curled her fingers around my palm, her small hand dwarfed by mine. I glanced over at her, trying to place a smile and offer some reassurance, but failing miserably.
“Did you know her very well, Uncle Bull?”
Concern in her pressed lips made me shake my head and swallow. I cleared my throat. “Not really, no.”
“You seemed to.” She squeezed my fingers. “I’m sorry she died. She saved us. I didn’t know who she was, but when she got in that house and pulled us out, I hoped she was someone who would save us.” She studied me in the dim street light. “Do you think that sounds stupid?”
Static on the police radio in the front seat and some talking interrupted our quiet conversation. I didn’t want to brush aside the girl’s vulnerability. Being where she was after the last few days would fill anyone with serious security issues.
I reached over and wrapped my good arm around her shoulder, pulling her close to my chest. She rested her head on my shoulder, welcoming the embrace. “You’re not stupid. No matter what you feel about what’s happened to you, Tay, you’re not stupid and your feelings are not wrong. Okay?”
She nodded, the moisture of her tears seeping through the material of my shirt. I gave her the privacy of ignoring her crying and watched as the streets and buildings became more and more familiar as we neared Rick’s house.
My thoughts drifted back to the restaurant. Everything had happened so fast. Then, after the cops took control of the scene, things slowed to a methodical crawl. Taylor and I were moved, along with the dark haired girl Gus-Goose rescued. First to the back of a police car, then into the motorhome that showed up about an hour later.
I smiled slightly. Motorhome? Hell, the thing was a bona fide command post, which was exactly how they used it. Some state patrol captain showed up and ran the show, but he never once spoke to me or the girls. We stayed in the far end of the vehicle, sipping coffee and waiting.
Finally, a detective came to see us. She introduced herself as Detective Mason, and asked each of us to step outside with her in turn. The Russian girl went first. She returned just a few minutes later. Then it was Taylor’s turn. She gave me a concerned look before following the detective.
“Just tell the truth,” I told her. “It’ll be all right.”
Taylor nodded.
Twenty minutes later, my turn came. In that twenty minutes, I made some decisions about things. Not necessarily decisions I was too proud of, either. But sometimes duty and necessity trump pride.
Detective Mason walked me through my story. I gave it to her without a hitch. I kept it simple. I left out all the exciting parts. She seemed to buy it.
When we’d finished, she nodded slowly. “Stroke of luck that you found them here at the restaurant.”
I couldn’t tell if she was suspicious or just playing out the string. I guess it didn’t matter, though.
“I’m a hunter,” I told her. “And hunting has taught me a thing or two over the years. One is to play the averages. Another is to play your hunches. And the biggest thing of all, is patience.”
“Patience, huh?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I lied. “So let me tell you that while finding them here was a stroke of luck, I made my own luck by staking this place out for two days straight. Sort of increased my odds, so to speak.”
“Like a deer at a watering hole?”
I shrugged. “Something like that.”
“Only deer don’t shoot back.”
I smiled at her then. “Hell, ma’am. I didn’t know these guys were going to have guns.”
Detective Mason didn’t return my smile, but she took me back to the motor home. We sat there another two hours before a uniform cop came and told Taylor and me that he was taking us home.
Taylor’s sharp intake of breath brought me back to the present. I glanced over her shoulder at the fami
liar home. I felt a rush of relief and satisfaction as we pulled into the driveway.
My brother watched from the window, his arms crossed. But when we pulled in, he disappeared, reappearing almost instantly in the doorway.
The cop climbed from the car and opened the door for Taylor. She bounded out, energetic in her return to her family.
Her dad opened his arms and picked her up in his embrace, groaning and laughing as he did so.
I crawled across the seat from my side, no door service offered to me. And I was injured. I avoided touching anything with the multi-layer-gauze-bandaged arm with the shattered bone and pieces of bullet still in it.
As I rose from the sitting position and stood, Rick’s eyes were drawn to me. They widened and he stepped toward me, but the small woman who hated me – his wife – attacked me like a whirlwind, yanking me into a hug and crying on my shoulder. I held back my wince as she jostled the forearm that hadn’t survived the fighting.
“Oh, Bull, you did it, you brought my little girl back. Thank you so much. When Rick said you were trying, I didn’t think you could do it, but you did… and I’m so sorry.” She sniffed, unaware that her double-edged gratitude made me roll my eyes.
Rick grinned and shrugged, too happy with the outcome to push anything. He motioned toward the house. “Come inside, Bull. We can talk, have something to drink.”
I met Taylor’s gaze and shook my head almost imperceptibly. “Thanks, but I haven’t slept in a while. I’m going to go drop into bed soon. Maybe tomorrow we can get together for dinner or something?”
And I can keep to myself the people I’d killed.
“Sure, sure.” He side-walked inside, Taylor under one arm and his wife in the other.
I couldn’t blame him for being abrupt. His daughter was home after days of believing he’d never see her again. The best reward for me was seeing her reunited with her family. He’d make it up to me, the doubting, and the stress, and asking me. And I’d let him, never telling him that saving my favorite family member was more than enough for me.
I turned to the patrol officer. Before I could say anything, he said, “I’m directed to give you a ride to your home, sir.”
I hesitated, but after a moment, I nodded. What else was there to do, really? So it was back through the open rear door and sliding across the thick plastic covered seat.
“I don’t suppose I could sit up front with you?”
“Sorry, sir. Regulations.” He closed the door.
I waited until we were on the road and headed toward my house before I asked my next question. “Um, excuse me, do you know what happened to my truck? Nobody has really told me much of anything.” I leaned forward, hoping he’d take pity on me.
He nodded, meeting my gaze in the rearview mirror. “Your truck was impounded as part of the crime scene at the restaurant.”
“Impounded? Will I get it back?”
He shrugged. “It depends, sir.”
“On what?”
“On the investigation, I imagine. And your part in that whole mess.”
We didn’t speak for the remainder of the ride.
It was a week before I got my truck back. In that time, I had dinner at Rick’s twice. The first time was a celebratory affair, full of laughter and a lot of love for Uncle Bull. The second time wasn’t much different, but there was something subdued in the air. It was as if no one wanted to remember what had just happened to Taylor. Like everyone wanted to move on.
For the most part, that was fine with me.
My bandages came off in a few days. I was a good little boy and took the antibiotics and everything else the doctor gave me, as prescribed. Well, except for the pain meds. I suppose there’s a place for such things, for when the pain isn’t bearable. But pain was meant to be felt, and if you can bear it, you should feel it. Anything less was just cowardly.
Not that I didn’t have a drink or two, of course. Not for the pain from my injuries, though. No, pain comes in all kinds.
Pain of loss.
Pain of regret.
Detective Mason had me in for a second interview. This one took place in the police station in a formal interrogation room. The room was plain and bare. After taking a seat, the first thing I said was, “What? No one way mirror?”
She pointed to the ceiling. In the corner, I spotted a small camera. “Two birds with one stone,” she explained. “We can watch it live, and it gets recorded at the same time.”
“Efficient,” I mused. Suddenly I was glad I’d kept things simple when I talked to her the night of the shooting.
We went over my account again and I kept it as straight as I could. She didn’t come at me hard or try to trip me up, so my logical sense was that she believed me. But my gut told me otherwise.
There was no mention of the dead bodies in the house up north. She asked me if I knew anybody named Anton, and I started to repeat my previous answer, then stopped.
“I guess I do,” I said.
Detective Mason leaned forward. “How?”
“Taylor,” I told her. “She told me a few things about her experience. She mentioned a guy named Anton.”
Mason leaned back. There were no further questions about Anton.
She called me a second time to let me know I could come pick up my truck. I was grateful to have it back. The crappy rental car thing was getting old.
A day later, I got another call.
“William Porter? This is Lieutenant Shepard, Spokane Police.” His gravelly voice was about the most serious sound I’d ever heard.
I swallowed, a little unnerved. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“I’d like to meet with you. Have a conversation.”
“All right. When?”
“I was thinking now.”
I paused, getting my thoughts in order. “Okay. I can be down to the police station in about an hour or so.” I thought about asking if I needed to bring my lawyer, but decided against it.
“No,” Shepard said. “Let’s make it somewhere nearer to you. You know a place in Post Falls called Abe’s?”
“Sure.”
“See you there in thirty minutes.”
He hung up before I could reply.
Abe’s was the only cowboy bar in Post Falls that I could stand. It was there for two reasons: drinking and country music. Sometimes the music was live, sometimes it was on the jukebox, but either way it was the only music allowed. Even the pop songs by country artists didn’t make the cut in Abe’s.
Unlike the other western bars in the area, Abe’s was relatively small. There was no mechanical bull. The dance floor was roughly the size of a bathroom stall. If you were looking to pick up suburban cowgirls, this wasn’t the place.
Lieutenant Shepard was easy to find. Sitting at a table in the corner, he was the only guy in the place who wasn’t drunk yet. When my eyes settled on him, he was already looking at me. He gave me a subtle wave and I approached.
“What’ll you have?” he asked as I sat across from him.
He had a beer in front of him, so I decided to follow suit. “Bud?”
He scowled. “Coors.”
I shrugged. Loyalty among beer drinkers never made sense to me. “Sounds fine.”
He motioned to the waitress to bring me a Coors. Then he took a sip of his own beer and leaned back in his seat. He didn’t say a word until my mug arrived. Somehow I knew he was waiting for me to take a drink, too, so I put the glass to my lips and sucked down a healthy swallow.
When I put the glass down, I raised my eyebrows to him. “Why am I here, lieutenant?”
Shepard’s expression didn’t change. He just looked at me some more. After a while, it started to feel a little uncomfortable. Then it started to piss me off. I knew I was probably still on thin ice where the investigation was concerned but that didn’t mean I was going to let some guy mean-mug me across the table. Cop or no cop.
Finally Shepard took another long drink of his beer. He set the glass on the table with a thun
k, and drew the back of his hand across his mouth. “Porter,” he said, “We are here because you are full of shit.”
I felt a stab of panic in my lower gut but kept my expression flat. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Completely.”
I glanced around. “If I’m full of shit, why are we talking about it here?”
“Hell, a cowboy bar is the perfect place for a conversation about being full of shit.” He leaned forward. “I want you to listen to me for a few minutes. Don’t say a word, just listen.”
I nodded slowly. “All right.”
“Good,” he said. He leaned back and thought for a moment. Then he said, “I could tell you all the ways you fucked up with your story, but you probably already know most of them, so that’d be a waste of our time. I think it’s enough to say that you, me, and Detective Mason can all agree that you didn’t just stake out Marlene’s Restaurant in Ritzville and get lucky. You followed Gus there.”
True to my word, I didn’t answer. I just waited for him to continue.
“Not that our investigation is perfect,” he said. “Or that everyone is talking. Certainly, none of the Russians we were able to get into custody had anything to say. But their neighbors at the house in Pasco were more than willing to talk. And some of them saw a truck like yours in their neighborhood that same morning. After they woke up to shots being fired.”
Shit.
Shepard didn’t miss a beat. “And I don’t buy that the bullet holes in your truck came from the dust up in the restaurant, no matter how many shots those Russians were spraying around the place.”
I didn’t answer.
Shepard went on. “Anton wasn’t any help, of course. Like any smart criminal, he lawyered up right away. But thanks to Gus’s work, my crime analyst linked him to the Russians on one end and to some local suppliers on the other. Funny thing, though. Those suppliers had their house raided by some unknown guy just a couple of days before. Two dead. Our homicide detectives are getting nowhere on that case.”
I listened intently to him. That last part was good, at least.