Thin Gray Lines

by Mark Hazard

He produced a Zippo lighter, the same one he’d used the night before to blow his fireball.

  Everyone in the circle brought out their own talisman, some through the collar of their shirts, some from their pockets. One man pulled back his sleeve to peer at a symbol tattooed on his forearm.

  “All together: This is my talisman. It reminds me of what is real, what is now and what I control.”

  Everyone repeated the long-practiced words with more alacrity than the invocation. Whatever this was, these men and women took it very seriously.

  They continued without prompting. “It reminds me of what is not real, what is past or future and what I do not control. With this talisman, I bind myself to the moment. I am present. I am well. I am getting better.”

  Corus looked down at the trauma llama in his hands. The words stirred something inside him, but what exactly he had no idea.

  FOUR

  Outside Walla Walla, Washington

  The open house was scheduled to start at nine am. Olive Tanner arrived at eight to bake cookies and do the last tidying up, as old man Richards couldn’t be counted on for either. Unsurprised that her knock went unanswered, she let herself in and made a quick loop of the main floor. Living room, bathroom, two bedrooms and kitchen all looked clean. She plucked a microwavable dinner wrapper off the cutting board and threw it away, then hid Richards’ whiskey bottle and washed the tumbler he drank out of each night, setting it in the cupboard with an assortment of humorous mugs and plastic promotional cups.

  She tutted to herself at what an inveterate bachelor Richards had remained all those years despite being a tall and charming man, and with three hundred acres, no less. He ran his farm with so much rigor and attention, perhaps he didn’t have anything left for a wife. Now he was too old to operate it by himself and had no progeny to pass it to, which seemed tragic to Olive. Of course, her parents hadn’t missed an opportunity to expand. Richards was happy he was selling it to a neighbor rather than a conglomerate, but her mother profiting off another man’s misfortune, as Olive saw it, put a sour note on the end of a sad story.

  She resolved not to allow the thoughts to steal her joy, as she’d found so little in her first year as a real estate agent.

  When she called up the stairs, she got no response. She climbed half the steps to the second floor.

  “Mister Richards? Wakey, wakey.”

  Silence.

  Another step up, and she called out, “Open house soon, Mister Richards. People are coming.”

  Again, no response.

  She whistled and stomped on the stair, anything to make the old onion farmer wake up. In a full body cringe, she mounted the last steps, turned down the landing to his room and peered inside.

  A shaft of light beamed down on old man Richards where he lay in his bed. She felt his deadness on the air. She felt it in her skin and bones. The old codger was gone.

  When the shock wore off, she found herself at the head of the stairs, staring out a rear window at the farm. She took a deep breath and wiped her tears and returned to the doorway.

  The shaft of bright light still shone down through an angled portion of the ceiling, no trick of her eye, nor was it a tractor beam to heaven. The beam shot at the bed, as if pointing. And the bed didn’t look right. It was tilted backward at an angle.

  She held her nose and stepped into the room. The bed had caved in near the headboard. Old man Richards’ head looked deflated, as did his chest, but he’d bled little, only a trickle out the nose.

  She traced a line from the hole to the bed and followed its path to the splinter-strewn remains of the closet door. Amidst the damage, sat a large, green rectangle the size of a footlocker.

  She knelt beside it and ran a hand over the scuffed green canvas. A handle looped out from the bottom. It was a duffel bag.

  “Where did you come from?”

  It lay with the zipper side down, but it was so heavy she couldn’t roll it over.

  Footsteps creaked the floorboards in the kitchen, then the stairs.

  “Oh, God.” She leapt for the bedroom door. “Sorry! The open house doesn’t start for an hour.”

  Blue eyes gleamed under the brim of a worn hat with a pinched crown and a band of leather about the base inset with little white shells. The man’s looks were weather-beaten, skin freckled from the sun, lips chapped. He had the air of a man who flinched from nothing, but Olive knew differently.

  “Olive?”

  “Randall? What are you doing here?” she said.

  “I could ask the same.” His accent was sharp and foreign, beautiful to her ears.

  “I’m selling this house. Open house is in an hour.”

  Another head popped into the stairwell, looking up at her. Also an employee of her parents.

  “Moses?”

  “Olive? Oh, shit.”

  “Watch your tongue,” Randall said.

  “What are you doing here?” His curls bounced around his swarthy face with its cleft chin and nose.

  “We need to call the police,” she said. “I think there’s been some sort of freak accident. Old man Richards. He’s…”

  Randall bounded up the stairs and swept past her. He pulled his hat from his head and slapped it across his leg. “Ag man!”

  Moses was right behind him and stopped short. “Shit on a biscuit.”

  This time Randall didn’t chastise him.

  “All those years of boozing, and this is what gets him.” Moses cursed in Spanish.

  “We need to get it out of here.” Randall looked over his shoulder. “Did you touch anything?”

  “I touched everything,” Olive said. “I cleaned the whole house yesterday.”

  “Ag.” Randall winced. “Moses, start breaking this down and get it out of here. Olive, to the bakkie, chop-chop.”

  He shepherded her down the stairs and out the back door toward his pickup, which he’d parked on the dirt road connecting the Richards farm to the Tanner farm.

  “What’s in that bag, Randall? It looks heavy.”

  “You know…”

  “No, I have no idea.”

  He stopped and clutched her, his hands gently enveloping her arms. His eyes flashed as they searched her face. “You really don’t know?”

  “If large bags are just falling from the sky, we need to alert the authorities,” she said. “I saw a movie once where a plane engine fell on a house. We can’t have that around here. Life’s hard enough.”

  He pulled her toward the truck. Moses walked out of the house holding two medium-sized bags and set them in the back. Randall put her in the cab, and she started to cry.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Everything’s fine.” Randall took a softer tone, his usual tone. “Don’t cry, miss. Please.”

  “Everything’s not fine. You don’t look fine. Old man Richards is not fine.”

  “I’m going to help Moses, but I’ll be back now-now, and then I’ll take you to get pancakes. Your favorite. Ja?”

  “I shouldn’t call the cops?”

  “No, Olive. You’re the last person who should do that.”

  She blinked through her tears, wondering what on earth he could’ve meant by that.

  Randall jogged inside then emerged with Moses, each man carrying two more duffels. Moses hopped on the tailgate, and Randall hoisted his bags into the bed. He jumped behind the wheel and spun the tires as he pulled around toward the Tanner farm.

  FIVE

  Covington, Washington

  3rd Precinct

  Corus arrived early for his shift, hoping to talk to Jim, but there was no sign of him in CID.

  “He’s usually here by now,” a sing-song voice said.

  Deputy Inspector Godfried stood by his cubicle, looking slender and dapper in his suspenders and thin tie. He sipped from an energy drink.

  “Morning,” Corus said.

  “Morning to you. How are they breaking you in?”

  “Hmm. Jameson has layers I didn’t see right away.”
>
  “Heh. Layers. Right.” Godfried’s thin mustache bent up to one side.

  “You two are friends, right?”

  “Danny Jameson is a good cop but flawed.”

  “Why does everyone seem to like him?”

  “He’s nice to animals and old people? I dunno. Sometimes he’s intense; other times he’s a ditz. People just never take it personally, because he treats everyone the same and doesn’t try to be liked. Some like him a little extra for that. I like him a normal amount.” Godfried sipped again. “You could do a lot worse for a mentor.”

  “Roger that. Tell Cummins I stopped by?”

  “Will do.”

  The briefing didn’t start for forty minutes, so he traipsed past Ruiz’s office, thinking maybe Jim would be there. As he approached, he casually glanced through the blinds, shocked to see Jameson inside, wearing the same clothes as the previous evening. He held his hands palm up by his stomach in subtle supplication.

  Corus halted before stepping into Ruiz’s sightline.

  “It’s nothing special, Danny,” Ruiz spouted in a tone of frustration.

  “It was special to me. I cried that one time.”

  Ruiz shut the blinds and closed the door. The rest of the conversation was muffled.

  Corus narrowed his eyes in confusion.

  Redmond appeared out of nowhere and patted him on the shoulder. “Be careful what you know.” Without stopping, she continued on her path through the bullpen.

  Suddenly, he had an urge to grab a coffee somewhere outside the building.

  He returned in time for the briefing with a skinny latte for Chu, a drip coffee for himself, a quad shot mocha for Jameson and a sweetened iced tea for Sergeant Junk. He found the taciturn Sergeant Junk in the briefing room all alone. She was Jameson’s age, tall with a handsome face, a bearing of seriousness counterpoised by a youthful glow.

  She accepted her beverage with a nod. “Deputy Corus, you outdo yourself.”

  “You look different. New ponytail holder?”

  “It’s the eyebrows. I almost punched Chu in the face when he suggested tweezing, but damned if it didn’t open up my eyes.”

  “Looking good. But for all our sakes, please do punch him next time.” Corus gazed around at the empty room. “Where is everyone?”

  “On busy days, Ruiz shoots orders our way before we get in the door. She probably gave all the fun assignments to people who aren’t babysitting newbs. No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  “If she doesn’t show in five, we’re supposed to head off to patrol and follow standing orders.”

  As if summoned, Ruiz appeared in the doorway. “Deputy Corus.” Ruiz waved him toward her, then disappeared into the hall.

  He set down the drink holder and followed.

  “Chief Detective Cummins had a bicycling accident on the way to work today,” she said as they walked. “Don’t worry, he’s alive, but he won’t be in this morning. We need to talk.”

  She swept into her now empty office and took up a favored stance, one hand on her desk, other hand perched on a hip. “He’s here, Jim.”

  Jim spoke from the speakerphone. “Corus, I’m — yeow! — I’m indisposed at the moment. I can’t make the trip, but I still think it’s worth doing. Ruiz?”

  “I’m vehemently against sticking our noses in matters outside our jurisdiction.” Ruiz ducked to one side. “But I want this case to really wow the FBI.” She furled a hand. “That’s to say, I want the investigation to succeed. But why is Corus here? Does he know about the area in question?”

  “I’ve been reading up,” he said.

  “I want Corus to go without me.”

  “No!” Ruiz blinked and jerked her chin. “Are you joking?”

  “Not at all. Did you read his file? I know people have snooped.”

  “No. I’m glad he has field skills, but come on. He’s only done ten shifts.”

  “Today is number nine,” Corus said.

  “It’s like your favorite move, Lieutenant,” Jim said. “Pulp Fiction. You know that part where they bring the leather-clad sex gimp out?”

  “Of course I do. Where you going with this, Jim?”

  “Third precinct is the smartest, most talented bunch of people I’ve ever worked with,” Jim said. “But it’s no slight to anyone that delicate work in foreign terrain is Corus’ bread and butter. This is our moment to open the crate and let the sex gimp out.”

  “Excuse me,” Corus said.

  “We did the same thing with Foley and Collins when we found out they had special technical skills. He’s no computer geek, but he’s the right tool for this job. Use him.”

  Ruiz tongued her cheek and shifted her weight, switching hands on the desk. “I’m not sending him alone.”

  “Have Godfried—” Jim yelped in pain again.

  “He has court today. Kawajiri and Neff are backlogged.”

  “What about Pineda?” Jim asked. “Never mind. Forget I said that.”

  “Just wait until you feel better and go yourself. Corus needs to be focused on learning the ropes.”

  “Send Jameson. He’s training Corus, anyhow.”

  Corus couldn’t see what Jameson and his increasingly erratic behavior would add to the effort, only the potential problems he could cause.

  “I think I’d be fine on my own. Really. It’s Walla Walla, not the Eastern Bloc.”

  “Jameson…” Ruiz curled a lip, annoyed at the mention of his name. “Wait. Jameson. Of course. Get him out of my hair.” She cleared her throat. “I mean, yeah. That could work.”

  Since her phone was in use, Ruiz called Jameson’s name into the bullpen. He stood from his chair and walked into the office. “Yeah?”

  “Got an assignment for you. Something different.”

  “Oh, do you mean it’s a special assignment? Because if it’s not special, I really oughta know beforehand. Or am I just a piece of meat who deserves no such notice?”

  She looked aghast at the phone. “I got it from here, Jim.” She hit a button and ended the call. “Goddammit, Danny.”

  “I gave you some of the best years of my life.”

  “It’s been six months, tops,” she said under her breath.

  “Well, they were six of my best months.” He let his thick hands fall to his side, slapping denim-clad thighs. “What’s the job?”

  “You’re going to Walla Walla.”

  “Prisoner escort?”

  “Not to the prison, to the surrounding area. The Princess operation.”

  “Isn’t that Cummins’ baby?”

  “He’s hurt. Still wants you to go. Both of you.”

  “The Rook? But he’s still on the tit. He’s a babe in arms.”

  “I know, but he has a useful past. He’s excellent at…” She searched for words as she fluttered her hand like a fish swimming upstream. “Full contact problem solving.”

  Jameson looked Corus over. “I don’t know…”

  “He’s the right tool for the job. Like that sex gimp in Pulp Fiction.”

  “How did he help anything?” Jameson’s brows knitted together. “If it’s problems that need solving, you want Harvey Keitel at the end of the movie.”

  “That’s a much better metaphor.” She grimaced. “Jesus, Jim, what the hell is wrong with you?” She shook it off and pointed at them. “Collect your per diems and go make sure Jim didn’t hit his head. Then get your asses down to onion country.”

  SIX

  San Diego, California

  Frederick Joller lay by a YMCA pool, reading The Art of the Rebound: Transforming Failure into Success by Gabriel Fortnight, a book he had purchased at an airport after its cover and title reached out and grabbed him. The premise of the book stated that human beings repeated mistakes because they fundamentally misunderstood them. What a person identified as their big failure, a bankruptcy for example, was really the result of more primary errors. Each chapter outlined the subtler types of failure that, if left unchecked and allowe
d to meld, manifested in job loss, heartbreak and general disaster.

  He was in the middle of Chapter Three: “Failure to Forgive: It’s For You, Not Them,” but had to set it down and rub his sore eyes. The San Diego sun was no joke — even early in the day — reflecting off cream-colored paper and burning through his sunglasses into his retinas. He checked his watch and flipped over onto his back, hiking his swim trunks high on his muscular quads for maximum exposure. Holding the book above his face to block the sun from his eyes, he tried to read again, but the soreness mounted, and words still blurred together, despite the shade.

  Joller changed in the YMCA’s locker room and drove to the Chula Vista Shooting Club. His companions on the ride were a slender hard plastic case leaning up from the footwell and another smaller case on the seat.

  Since getting drummed out of the Army, his ex-wife got the house, their furniture, their son. The little he’d kept had been sold or pawned to stay afloat, everything except what lay in the seat beside him.

  He started on the long gun range, where he laid the long case on a shooting table, unlatched it at two points and pulled out a custom rifle. He took the lens caps off the scope which was zeroed at two hundred yards and — still standing — put the crosshairs on the top edge of a steel target at three hundred yards and pulled the trigger.

  The 6.5mm round slapped the steel only two inches below his point of aim, remarkably little drop. A gentle pank hit his ears to congratulate him.

  Joller had applied for sniper school but hadn’t qualified. He’d put in extra range time, acquired his expert marksman rating and applied again before his enlistment ended.

  Four hundred yards. Five-inch drop. Pank.

  He still hadn’t been accepted.

  Using his GI Bill money, he excelled at university in ways he never could’ve predicted based on grade school performance. He graduated Magna Cum Laude from Arizona State and was accepted to Tulane Law. But it was clearly the Army, not education, that had brought the best out of him. He took the boards and went through Officer Candidacy School. There, he struggled under the scorn of idiot instructors who didn’t understand his unique leadership style. His tenacity showed through, regardless, and he graduated, which in his mind proved his rightness and their stupidity.