I looked up at Elise, and her eyes were wide, her skin pale, her hair lashed across her face in soaked tendrils. Her bottom lip was trembling.
“My boy,” I said, softly. “Somebody killed my boy.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
One week later . . .
I sat in Schultz’s office, in the chair across the desk from him, twiddling my thumbs. We’d been at it for two hours now. He had my full report on the desk in front of him, and he stared at me with a concerned expression across his face.
Over his left shoulder, Keith Sullivan of Internal Affairs rested against the wall. Over Terry’s right shoulder was Keith’s partner, Bill Foster, who leaned against a filing cabinet, his arms crossed, a short stack of papers in his hand.
“Look, Blake, you have to understand this report leaves a lot of questions hanging,” said Terry, patting the papers.
“I don’t see how,” I said.
“What about the guy in the street?” asked Foster. “Your car was upside down. You say you killed the man in self-defense, but then you fled the crime scene?”
“I went over this already. Twice. I had to get to Stuart Arnold before Bach killed him for the password.”
“The password to the tech stolen from the garage?” asked Sullivan.
“That’s right. Bach was behind it all. He ran a company researching military technology. He killed Nicholas Hartmann for it, then needed the password so he could use it, steal it for his own wealth. He killed Stuart Arnold after he tortured him.”
“How?” asked Sullivan.
“How what?” I asked.
“How were Nicholas and Stuart killed?”
“You read the report, didn’t you?”
“You say a possible”—Foster held up a page—“exoskeletal strongman suit with a blunt sword.” He glanced at his partner and back at me.
“That’s right,” I said.
“And did you ever see this suit?” Foster asked.
“Nope.”
“So how do you know it’s real? How do you know what it is?” asked Sullivan, getting irritated.
“I don’t. It’s a guess. An educated guess. I figure one of Bach’s men turned on him, lost his mind and started killing people. Taking their heads off. It’s a theory. But you tell me how any of those deaths were possible without something like that. You read Calloway’s report.”
“So where is it now?” asked Foster.
“No idea.”
Foster scratched his cheek. “And what about the stolen tech from the garage? Where’s that gone?”
I thought about that. About the fae woman. And about what she had said before she had vanished. It was all I’d thought about since that night. “I guess the man in the suit took it,” I said. “I really don’t know.”
“You don’t know an awful lot, do you, Blake?” said Sullivan pointedly.
I shrugged. “Just what’s in the report.”
“And what about Detective Chris Romero?” asked Terry solemnly. “And Joe and Chuck? What about them? He kill them too?”
I looked at him. I didn’t want to answer that question. It had been hard enough writing a lie about the way they’d been killed. Not telling the truth about their deaths hurt . . . they deserved better than a lie. But it was the price I had to pay. The price they had to pay. Doing what it takes to keep people safe, in life and in death.
“Chris Romero was one hell of a detective,” I said. “He died serving this city. And so did Chuck and Joe.” I looked down and shook my head.
“Blake,” said Terry. “A full inquiry is underway concerning the events which occurred last Thursday. And until such time as an adequate understanding is reached, you will remain suspended . . . indefinitely.” His eyes met mine, hard and concerned. “I’m sorry, Blake.”
I nodded. “It’s okay, Terry. I understand.”
He sighed. “You’re free to go.”
“Hang around town for a while,” said Foster. “We’ll be paying you a visit, I’m sure.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I won’t be going anywhere.”
EPILOGUE
I was sitting on my couch. The category was Person, Place or Thing, because “noun” is way too pedantic for game show audiences, apparently. But the show was mostly background noise, ’cause I had my laptop out and was deep in research. There was an eruption of applause and I looked up to see a balding man named Dan shaking the host’s hand. He was off to Hawaii. I adjusted my moon boot on the coffee table and looked over at the window, then over my other shoulder at the kitchen.
All things considered, I’d done a pretty good job of cleaning the place up. Vacuuming on crutches should be an Olympic sport. I’d decided against Olympic lawn mowing and gotten the kid down the street to do the yard for me. I’d even baked a cake. A box mix, but hey, one moon boot step at a time.
I heard a hearty engine pull up in the drive. Then a car door thumped shut.
I scrambled for my crutches, hobbled over to the window and looked out. I smiled, then opened the door.
Elise’s arms were crossed as she rested against the fender of a brand-new Ford Mustang Shelby, GT350R. Competition orange with two black stripes down the middle. It was a beautiful automobile. Latest model. A fast car with a 5.2-liter V-8 engine. Zero to sixty in 4.3 seconds.
I smiled at her.
She was wearing jeans, leather boots, and a leather jacket. She looked great.
“Last I heard, there was a big waiting list for those things,” I said, glancing at the car.
She shrugged. “I know someone who’s good with computers.”
“That’s a pretty fast automobile. Sure you can handle it?”
“I don’t need to,” she said. “It’s yours.”
“What do you mean, mine?” I hobbled closer to her.
“To say thank you. It’s the least I could do, considering what happened to your last car.”
“That wasn’t your fault,” I said, looking the Shelby over.
“I know.” She smiled and threw me the keys.
I caught them. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You could invite me in for coffee,” she said.
“Actually, you might be able to help me with a problem I’m having.”
“What sort of problem?” she asked, concern in her voice.
“Got an itchy toe I can’t reach.”
She smirked. Then she laughed. I laughed with her.
Then she ran into my arms and hugged me. I hugged her back. It felt great. It was warm and full and long.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go inside.”
~ THE END ~
I hope you enjoyed Beyond the Spectrum. If you did, I'd really appreciate it if you could leave a review on Amazon. It doesn't need to be long, just a few words would be great, and will go a long way in helping me as an indie author. Thank you.
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~Geoff
Beyond the Spectrum Page 17