book.pdf

by Fha User

  would come around. Deciding not to push the matter further, Craig heaved a

  sigh of resignation and got out of bed.

  The shower was running so she didn’t hear him enter the bathroom. As

  soon as he opened the door he heard Casey crying. He swore viciously. She

  cried at the drop of a hat lately, but this time she was crying for a reason, and

  the reason was him. Feeling like crap, he slowly pulled back the shower

  curtain and joined her under the warm spray of water. Pulling her close, he

  wrapped his arms tight around her and captured her lips in a tender kiss.

  After a time, Craig got out and dried himself off. Padding barefoot into her

  small kitchen, he opened the refrigerator and surveyed its contents. He had

  all the ingredients to make omelets, except eggs and milk. She was washing

  her hair when he re-opened the bathroom door, so he raised his voice a little

  so she could hear him over the running water.

  “Babe, you’re all out of milk and eggs. I’m going out to get some

  provisions. Be back in a flash.” She muffled something he couldn’t hear

  over the noise of the shower.

  9

  Walking to the corner grocery, Craig made a mental list of a few more

  things he thought Casey might need. He would have liked to spend the

  entire day with her, but he’d promised his mom he’d stop by this morning

  and he had plans to hang out with the guys this afternoon. Oh, well, he

  thought, after breakfast he’d better get moving.

  There were three or four more customers in the market when he walked in.

  Craig picked up eggs, milk and juice and then wandered toward the back of

  the store to grab some bacon. He couldn’t remember if she liked turkey

  bacon or beef. As he pondered what type of bacon to buy, he felt something

  hard jab him in the side. When he tried to look behind him to see who the

  fuck had rolled up on him like this, Craig felt the barrel of a gun poke him

  hard in the ribs. As he glanced down, there was no mistaking the gun was

  real. His mind raced trying to figure a way out of this.

  “Hey man, you don’t want to do this. Take my money or whatever you

  want and leave,” he said, as the items in his hands fell to the floor.

  “Shut the fuck up, yah’ hear. Just shut the fuck up.”

  “Hey man, I don’t know you, but listen you don’t want to do this,”

  Craig’s voice trailed off as his mind searched for some way to reason with

  this asshole.

  “I know who you are, you bastard.”

  In the store a small crowd had gathered and some of the patrons turned a

  curious gaze on the men at the back of the store. The barrel of the weapon

  poking him was jammed harder into his side. Somehow he had angered this

  man and Craig wasn’t exactly sure why.

  “Listen,” he started again, but was instantly cut off.

  “Shut up you bastard. I know you been bangin’ her. She thought she could

  get rid of me, well she ain’t gettin’ rid of me that easy.”

  “Listen, you don’t know what you’re doing here, I’m a cop,” Craig said,

  trying desperately to reign in his own mounting anger and fear.

  “Yeah, I know who you are. I’m gonna’ fix it so both of you won’t be

  doing nobody anymore, let alone each other.”

  Sweat accumulated on his upper lip and under his armpits, as Craig

  realized this was probably the asshole that beat Casey up several months ago.

  The police investigation at the time hadn’t found a trace of the guy.

  Eventually, Craig had chalked the whole thing up to a punk boyfriend who

  beat up his girl when he was drunk, then split town when he finally sobered

  up. His mind turned the situation over and over frantically. How long had

  this scumbag been watching them? Using all the force within him to wrestle

  10

  this piece of shit to the floor, Craig twisted slightly and grabbed for the gun.

  Both he and the gunman rolled around on the floor several times, each with

  their hands locked around the gun before Craig was able to land a left hook

  to the side of his face. Craig felt he was going to gain the advantage when

  the gunman tried to crawl away. He grabbed his ankle, pulling him back.

  With a powerful lunge, Craig landed on top of the gunman, at the precise

  moment an elderly woman came down the aisle. The woman screamed

  when she saw the two men fighting on the floor. Suddenly, the gun went off.

  11

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  For Clayton Marshall, life couldn’t get any sweeter. He had the day off, it

  was payday and he couldn’t wait to pick up his brand new Ford F150. It

  was an awesome piece of machinery, boasting power windows, locks, doors,

  seats, a moon roof and a state-of-the art Bose sound system. Outside, it was

  the ultimate man’s truck with 16 liters of powerful V8 under her hood,

  aluminum rims and enough chrome to choke a horse. Yeah, it was quite a

  beauty and he couldn’t wait to pick her up. All he needed now was his

  paycheck.

  He opened the door to his old Buick and a blast of sweltering heat hit him

  square in the face— reality check. Oh well, he thought, this would be his last

  day driving in this old bucket of bolts, with its rusted paint job and busted air

  conditioning. Fortunately there was nothing wrong with the radio. Turning

  it on, he slid behind the wheel. Beyonce blasted through the speakers,

  singing about being a “Survivor.” Making his way to the station, Clay put

  the car in gear and shook his head to the music, keeping time with the beat.

  Traffic on Route 110 was light at this time of morning and he made it to the

  station in less than ten minutes. Pulling into the rear parking lot of the

  Amityville Police Station, Clay backed his old clunker in between two black

  and white squad cars.

  Cutting the engine, Clay donned a pair of dark, regulation issue sunglasses

  and got out of the car, whistling. God, it really was a perfect day, the sun sat

  high in a cloudless blue sky and its intensity at this hour of the morning was

  indicative of how the temperature would probably soar by noontime. He and

  the guys had made plans to meet at Amity Beach this afternoon. Smaller

  and less crowded than Jones Beach, Amity Beach was the perfect place for

  an outing. Craig was picking up the beer, Joe was bringing his Jet ski and

  Jake had the use of his parent’s speed boat for the day. Everyone else had

  been assigned to bring something, so they would have plenty of hot dogs,

  soda, chips and beer.

  Using his access card, Clay entered through the rear door of the station.

  Still whistling, he ambled over to the mail slots and noticed Stokes and

  Piterrelli standing over a desk watching something on the monitor. Whatever

  they were staring at must be pretty serious, he thought, because they didn’t

  look up when he came in.

  12

  “What’s up guys?” he asked of no one in particular as he surveyed the

  squad room.

  Both officers looked up from what they were doing, but did not reply.

  Stopping at the mail area, he poked his hand into his slot and came up with a

  white envelope. Sliding his index finger into the folds, he ripped an envelope

  open an
d announced. “Finally…payday couldn’t get here fast enough!”

  Reading his check and scanning the inserts that came along with it, Clay

  swung around and rested a lean hip against a nearby desk. “That’s it guys, its

  official now. In the next half hour I’ll be picking up my new ride and

  sending my old bucket of bolts to its final resting place,” he said.

  “Gentlemen, get ready to stand in line to say your final goodbyes.”

  Suddenly, it struck him that neither Stokes nor Piterrelli had moved, or said

  a word since he came in. Two more uniformed officers came out of the

  break room at that moment. They too had nothing to say.

  “Newt, Captain Jackson,” Clay’s greeting died on his lips. Both of them

  looked as solemn as Stokes and Piterrelli. Warily, he looked around the

  squad room. Recognizing the silence and the somberness of the room all too

  well, he thought this can’t be good.

  “Hey guys, com’on what’s the deal?”

  His Captain, Mike Jackson, grudgingly spoke up. “It’s bad news Clay. An

  officer went down; it just came in on the wire.”

  Clayton’s stomach suddenly lurched up then dropped down in fear.

  “Who?” The grave silence that followed his question seemed to last a

  hundred seconds. “Who?” Clay repeated, his fear mounting, as the seconds

  ticked by.

  In an almost inaudible voice, Jackson replied quietly, “Craig.”

  “Craig?” Clayton’s features twisted in pain and disbelief. No, they

  couldn’t be talking about his roommate, his partner, his best friend, he

  thought. “That can’t be. Somebody’s made a terrible mistake.”

  Approaching him, Captain Jackson placed an understanding hand on his

  shoulder. Rejecting it, Clayton pushed away from the desk he’d been leaning

  on, and stood, inadvertently shaking Jackson’s hand off his shoulder.

  “No, you’re all wrong. He’s not even on duty today. He told me he was

  stopping by his mom’s this morning and running some errands before joining

  us later at the beach.”

  “He wasn’t on duty Clay. Craig walked in on a robbery in progress at a

  convenience store on Chestnut. He was gone by the time the paramedics

  arrived.”

  13

  As the certainty of those words raced through Clay’s nerve endings, his

  knees felt weak and his heart sped up, pounding violently against his chest

  wall.

  “Oh shit,” he whispered. Moving backwards blindly, he encountered the

  edge of the desk he’d been leaning against just moments ago. He sagged

  against it for support, lifted both hands and covered his face.

  “No, no way,” he said in disbelief. “This can’t be happening.”

  Jackson spoke again. “We think the gunman panicked when Craig walked

  in and….”

  Captain Jackson’s voice faded as the shock hit Clay like a blow to the gut.

  Outwardly he schooled his features into hard, grim lines. But inwardly, it

  felt like his insides were being ripped apart. How? How could this have

  happened? He dealt with tragedy on a daily basis. Death, after all, was part

  of the job. This was different; he’d never dealt with death striking this close

  to home. Struggling with the conflicting emotions gripping his insides, he

  drew on the investigative training and methodical thinking of a trained peace

  officer. This training allowed him to gain a measure of control and, when he

  spoke again, his demeanor was seemingly calm and his voice appeared

  steady.

  “Was he wearing his vest?” He asked, even though he knew the answer.

  “No, he wasn’t. He wasn’t carrying his service revolver either, not that he

  would have had a chance to use it, before…” Jackson paused to clear his

  throat, precluding the need for further details.

  Clayton’s throat closed up on him, his chest tightened painfully and his

  knees began to shake. But he held his ground, operating on auto pilot and

  asked the questions he would normally ask as if Craig were no more than

  another crime victim.

  “Who responded to the call?”

  “Piterrelli.”

  Clayton turned to look at the young officer. His head was down and he

  was noticeably shaken.

  “Piterrelli?”

  Piterrelli was silent. His eyes were red as if he’d been crying and his lips

  were pulled into a grim line.

  “Come on, man. Tell me,” he urged.

  “I’m sorry Clay, Craig was dead by the time I got there and the perp was

  long gone.”

  14

  Blinding anger crashed down on Clay, making him want to strike out at

  something, anything. Startling everyone, he grabbed a nearby chair and

  flung it forcefully across the room.

  Overcome with rage, he shouted, “Dammit, why didn’t he wait for me. I

  offered to drop him off at his mother’s this morning, and help him with

  whatever he had to do. If only he’d let me help him, maybe…” His voice

  trailed off as a thought suddenly occurred to him.

  What the hell was Craig doing over on Chestnut anyway? ”

  Piterrelli reached out to comfort him, but Clayton shrugged away from his

  touch.

  “Don’t! Just, just leave me alone. I need...I just need a minute.” Turning,

  Clayton walked several feet away and planted his hands on his hips.

  “Jesus, motherfuckin’ Christ!” he shouted. Panic gripped him as a surge of

  adrenaline shot through him, simultaneously making his limbs quiver and

  shake, and turning his body hot and cold.

  Clayton knew people acted this way in these situations, but had not fully

  understood them until now. Being a cop, he had seen grief take many forms.

  When told a loved one was dead, most people would break down

  hysterically. Occasionally, their grief took the form of anger and some

  people lost it entirely. Suddenly, he realized it was happening to him. He

  was losing it. This all- consuming rage coursed through him, making him

  ready to do battle with anything and everything around him instead of doing

  what he desperately wanted to do, which was cry for the loss of a best friend.

  That realization caused the anger to drain away, and left him feeling weak

  and sick to his stomach. Then the tears finally came. They were big, hot

  stinging tears that blurred his vision and clogged his throat so badly he

  thought he would choke.

  “Aw, Craig,” he was able to get past the lump in his throat. This time he

  didn’t shrink away from the comfort being offered by his fellow officers, as

  they came up behind and stood beside him, gripping his shoulders and

  touching his back. With emotion strangling their voices, it was hard to tell

  exactly who was comforting whom. Clay turned slightly, and suddenly

  found Captain Jackson’s big, burly arms around him, clasping him hard like

  a father would comfort his son.

  Standing in the Captain’s strong embrace, Clayton heard random comments

  from his fellow officers.

  “He was a good man, a good cop.”

  “Damn, he was only twenty four years old. Hell, he’d hardly even lived.”

  “I’m sure gonna’ miss him.”

  15

  Straightening, Clayton fought and won a measure of control. Studying him,<
br />
  to make certain he was going to be alright, Captain Jackson thumped him on

  the back and released him. Clayton slumped into a nearby chair and covered

  his face with both his hands. Vivid pictures flashed behind his closed lids as

  he replayed the past four hours in his mind…

  When he heard the front door open, Clay rolled out of bed. Scratching his

  chest, he ambled down the hall and almost ran smack into Craig.

  “Whatup boy?” Craig said to him in greeting, as he raced past him. “I gotta’

  piss like a racehorse,” he told Clay as he dashed past him in the hallway on

  his way to the bathroom. A moment later, Clay heard the bathroom door

  slam in Craig’s room. Shaking his head, Clay went into their small kitchen

  to make some coffee. When Craig came in about fifteen minutes later, Clay

  offered him a cup.

  “Nah,” he said and opened the refrigerator. Rummaging around in there for

  quite a while, Craig finally came out with an open carton of orange juice.

  “So, what time are you picking up the new ride?” he asked Clay.

  Clay noticed Craig had taken a shower and changed into khaki shorts and a

  faded Mets T-shirt. His keys were in his hand, and he was obviously on his

  way out again. That was nothing unusual. He knew how hard it was to

  work all night then come right in and go to sleep.

  “This afternoon, before I head to the beach; you still gonna’ meet up with us

  later?” Clay asked.

  Craig stood by the refrigerator, gulping down OJ. He burped loudly,

  showing his appreciation of Florida’s finest, before answering.

  “Yeah man, I’m there. But first, I gotta’ stop by my mom’s,” he’d said.

  “The mower’s on the fritz and I promised I’d take a look at it before she went

  out and brought a new one.”

  That was just like him, Clay thought, remembering how good Craig was to

  his mother.

  Craig’s mom!

  Oh, Jesus, Craig’s poor mom. Alarm raced through him, thinking about

  her. His mom had been through enough already, she didn’t need this. He

  couldn’t let some stranger knock on her door, and deliver bad news like this.

  Swiping a hand across his eyes, he stood and faced Captain Jackson.