by Randy Rawls
“Put your gun down,” Charlie said.
Laury spun toward the voice, panic in his movement.
Tom went to his boot and whipped out his revolver. As he came up with the weapon, he fired, catching Laury in the temple. The dum-dum did its job. Laury crumpled into the couch cushions, dead before his brain quit sliming the wall.
“’Bout time you got here,” Tom said to Charlie who stood in the kitchen door. “Raul’s in the back. Be careful. He has the Mossberg.”
Charlie’s eyes flicked toward the hallway, then returned to Laury. “You’re a ruthless bastard, aren’t you?”
“Him or us. That’s a no-brainer. That’s the way the game is played in the field. Raul’s next.” Tom stared toward the back of the house, his weapon at the ready.
“We’ll take him alive. Turn him over to the cops. You have to stop.”
“Not a chance. He dies tonight, then we’re finished.” Tom stood and turned toward the hallway, the easy chair blocking his way.
Charlie walked toward Tom, saying in a soft voice, “Listen to me. Raul can wait. You can’t keep doing this. You’re not judge and jury. You’re not God. What happened to your sister doesn’t happen all the time. Mary Lou was my daughter. I won’t let you kill in her name again.” He took another step. “I have to stop you, stop you for your own good. It’ll—”
A blast echoed through the room sending shotgun pellets on their erratic routes, filling the air with the smell of cordite. Charlie fell as Tom reeled backward, tripping, then falling and rolling behind the easy chair. There was the sound of a pump action slamming a fresh shell into firing position, then a second shot ripped into the chair. Stuffing flew as pellets blew the chair over and peppered everything along the wall behind, including the tribute to Che Guevara.
Some of the candles on the altar that had illuminated and honored Che tumbled onto the tabletop covered in black paper, the wicks continuing to flame. Others fell onto the floor and rolled in different directions, two under the edge of the dusty curtains.
Accompanying the sound of the pump action of the shotgun again, Raul yelled, “You bastards. You can’t win. I’m invincible. The Thorns on Roses will live forever.” He fired another round, putting the room into darkness. “My advantage, you asshole. I know this room. Bump into anything and you’re a dead man.”
Tom hugged the floor, partially protected by the overturned easy chair, staring in the direction of Raul’s voice. Raul re-loaded and fired again, peppering the wall above Tom’s head while other pellets ripped the already shredded cushions.
The fire from Raul’s gun told Tom where Raul stood when he fired. He assumed Raul shot from chest high with the pistol grip. He squinted into the darkness, above, right, and left of the barrel flash. The flickering light behind him was the only illumination. A dull gleam rewarded him, about five feet above the floor. It could come from Raul’s bald head if he were in a crouch? The pump action sounded again.
Taking his time, Tom lined his pistol up on the gleam, lowered the barrel a notch, and squeezed the trigger. The clatter of the shotgun hitting the floor followed by the thump of a body told him his guess was right. He waited, insuring it was not a ruse. When there was no sound, he maneuvered to the spot where he’d heard the falling body. In the faint illumination, he saw Raul lying on his back, a small hole between his open eyes, a surprised look marking his face. Dead. Never to menace another female. Such was the power of the .22 magnum dum-dum.
Tom rushed to Charlie’s side. He was a mess, bleeding from multiple injuries. He’d taken the full onslaught of the triple-ought-buck. Wounds rippled up his side from his waist to the top of his shoulder. His face was unrecognizable, blood pouring from numerous holes. Red bubbles came from his nose and across his lips with each breath.
Dropping his pistol, Tom cradled Charlie in his arms. “Charlie. Oh, God, Charlie. Hang on. I’ll get you to a hospital.”
“No,” Charlie gasped. His hand fluttered to his face, brushing away blood that instantly reappeared. “Done for. Take care of Lonnie. Tell her…I love her.” He rolled his head and stared into Tom’s face. With obvious effort, he spoke past the blood that ran from his mouth. “Let…me…” Each word was a struggle, a gurgle that produced a red stream.
Tom lowered Charlie’s head. “Stay right here. I’m calling nine-one-one.”
“No,” Charlie said with more energy than he should have expended. “Listen. For once in your damn life, listen to me.”
Tom leaned closer to Charlie’s lips, straining to interpret the mumbles that came from his mouth.
“I’m your alibi. I killed them. All of them. Let me…” His voice failed.
The bubbles ceased.
Blood quit flowing.
Tom cried.
He cradled Charlie to his chest, rocking him like a mother rocks her baby. Sobbing, his heart broken, no concept of time or place. His best friend. Charlie. Dead. No. It couldn’t be.
How long he sat that way, he didn’t know, but gradually his sense of feeling returned him to the present. He felt a searing heat on his back and neck. Looking around, he saw an inferno engulfing the room. Flames had already eaten the curtains and were devouring the sofa, their savage hunger unabated. The overturned easy chair that had saved his live flared. The broken spring would pinch no more.
Tom lay Charlie’s head down with a reverence he’d never felt before. “I’ll get you out of here.” He slid his hands under the body and lifted, but Charlie was too heavy, too much dead weight. Tom’s wounded arm screamed in pain, refusing to cooperate. Charlie’s head flopped, and his arms flailed one way, his legs another. As Tom strained to lift one-half, the other half got away from him. He couldn’t do it.
The fire ignored the struggle taking place at the mouth of the kitchen, intent on working its way across and around the room, eating everything in its path. The noise was like words coming off the tongues of flame. A crackle here, a snap there. Pops in return. Whooshing sounds. Directions being shouted from one spike to another. Minor booms sounding as light bulbs exploded and other materials flared in spontaneous combustion. Flames circled the room as if rushing to cut off escape routes before the four humans could use them.
But three of the people were fuel. Dead, unmoving. The fire crawled up the sofa and nibbled at Laury. Satisfied he couldn’t resist, it grabbed his clothing and ate at his flesh.
Another finger of the inferno found Raul’s beard first, his clothes second, then his body, generating black greasy smoke as it fed.
Tom struggled with Charlie’s body, wasting time trying to pick him up, wanting to carry him out of danger. He couldn’t do it. Didn’t have the strength with only one good arm. He gave up, slipped his hands under the shoulders and began to pull toward the kitchen, the only narrow avenue of escape available.
Smoke filled the room, swirling past the stove and refrigerator and through the open back door. Smoke so dense, so foul, so filled with the stench of burning meat that Tom gagged as his eyes flooded with tears. He had to get Charlie out—out into fresh air. He couldn’t leave his friend. Leave no man behind. The phrase echoed over and over through his head. Leave no man behind, meaning every soldier deserved recovery and an honorable burial—the code of a soldier. He couldn’t abandon Charlie.
He moved as fast as he could, dragging Charlie’s two-hundred-fifty pounds across the floor. But progress was slow—too slow.
The flames moved faster. Charlie’s shoes began to smoke. His pants caught fire. With blinding speed, the fire raced up Charlie’s clothing until it engulfed his shirt, reaching to sear Tom’s hands. Flaming, chewing, burning.
Pain radiated up Tom’s arms. Pain so intense he had to escape it. He dropped Charlie and ran—ran for the fresh air outside the house. Tears blinded him as he stumbled and fell, got up, ran, stumbled, fell again. His subconscious registered the sound of sirens. When he looked behind him, he saw only the inferno—fires as bright as hell. Fires as horrific as any preacher had ever word-painted.
<
br /> His autopilot led him to the street behind Raul’s house. Led him to the van. Charlie had left it unlocked, the keys in the ignition.
Tom jumped in, fired the engine, and roared away, his hands protesting their punishment. Abby. He had to get to Abby. Things were wrong, so very wrong. She’d make them right.
THIRTY-THREE
Detectives Richards and Summers trudged into Richards’ office, fatigue obvious in every step. They smelled of smoke, and soot darkened their faces and hands. The hand soap in the bathroom wouldn’t touch it, couldn’t cut the greasiness of it. Their clothing was a mishmash, the result of being rousted from bed at one a.m., then spending the rest of the night at a fiery crime scene.
Summers dropped into a straight-backed chair, and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m bushed, chief. Bushed and frustrated. We were close—so damn close.”
Richards walked around his desk and sat, resting his elbows on the desktop and supporting his face in his hands. “Yeah. I thought we had it. But what is it they say? Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. If I had one now, I’d sit on it.”
“The horseshoe or the hand grenade?” Summers asked, forcing a tired smile.
“The grenade. May as well blow my ass away before the captain takes chunks out of it. He will not be thrilled. What time is it?”
Summers looked at his watch, then at the window. “Only seven-thirty. Since the sun’s up, it must be morning.” He yawned. “Can that be right? Seems like days since we drove up to that smoldering house. What a mess. Three charred bodies, two of them the punks we wanted to arrest.” He hesitated, rolling his head on his neck. “Well, one of them anyway.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Richards said. “That third body is the one that bothers me.” He held up his hand, and tapped his forefinger. “Santiago. No surprise there. After all, it was his house.” He went to his middle finger. “Charles Rogers, Mary Lou Smithson’s stepfather. Yeah, that surprised me, but I can handle it. I didn’t figure him the type who’d deliver his own justice, but when you think about it, it makes sense. Ex-military. Trained killer.” He jumped to his third finger. “The other one? Well, I’ll just feel better when we have a firm ID on it.” He rubbed his face, smearing the soot. “Seems like I’ve been way off-base from the beginning. Maybe it’s time for me to retire. I sure blew this one.”
“Easy, chief. So did I. I was ready to pin a ribbon on Tom Jeffries for saving the state a lot of money and bother.”
Richards sighed. “Yeah, Jeffries. Guess I owe him an apology—if he’s alive. Not that he’ll ever get it. He’s still a damned PI.” He turned and stared out the window, lost in himself.
After a moment, Summers asked in a quiet voice. “What is it, chief. There’s something else bothering you, isn’t there?”
“Bothering? No. Not really.” Richards returned to his desk and sat. “I probably shouldn’t tell you. Not very cop-like. I was thinking of my daughter. I was reflecting on what’s best for society and for all our children. Because of last night, she and so many other young girls can grow up and never be hurt by Raul Santiago and his Thorns on Roses gang. Mr. Rogers did me a favor. Hell, he did the world a favor. Even if we had arrested them, who’s to say a smart lawyer wouldn’t have gotten them off, wouldn’t have put them back onto the street to keep preying on the innocent.
“Now, don’t get me wrong, Phil. Vigilantism is not the answer. But there are times when it might be just the medicine society needs. I’m not disappointed that Charles Rogers took the law into his own hands. They stole the life of his daughter. He owed them. And by paying them, he saved all of us. If I had my way, we’d give him the key to the city.”
His face lost its pleasant look. “Of course, if you ever repeat any of this, I’ll have to bust you back to foot patrol.”
Summers rubbed his face. “You know, Chief. You really should join Toastmasters. Sometimes, you mumble so bad I can’t understand a word you say.”
“Yeah. Let’s move on. What else do you have?”
Summers looked at the ceiling where the fan made lazy rotations. “The third body. Are you thinking it could be Jeffries?”
Richards focused on a spot over Summers’ right shoulder. “I’m trying not to think. Trying to make myself wait for the ME’s report.” He paused. “But yeah. The thought has crossed my mind.”
Summers went quiet for a moment. “Want I should swing by his place? See if his car is in the driveway, any sign anyone’s at home? Maybe knock on his door?”
“No. Leave him alone. If he’s not the third body, I’m ready to turn it loose. Maybe he’s involved, maybe not. But we know Charles Rogers died in that house. I’m going to recommend we close the case with Rogers as an avenger. He had to be involved, or he wouldn’t be dead now. We have no indication that Jeffries was there last night—unless the third body is his. Of course, with the condition of that living room, no way to tell who or what might have escaped. If something comes up that says Jeffries or anyone else played a part, we’ll check into it. Otherwise…” He waved his hand in dismissal. “Now, something the captain will probably ask. Find out who’s handling next of kin?”
“That was why Saunders stopped me when we first came in, to let me know she and Garcia will visit Rogers’ wife this morning. Saunders is the best we have. She sets just the right tone to soften the impact, keep things under control. And Garcia has that bulldog face that emotes sympathy.”
“The others?”
“No next of kin that we know of yet.”
“Good.” He sighed. “If only Ms. Bobbington had been able to get that warrant. We could have picked them up and put those punks in a holding cell. Rogers would still be alive.”
“Yeah,” Summers said, a deep frown marking his face. “But just our luck. She drew Judge you don’t have enough. If we left it to him, we’d be out of a job. Society could sit around and wait for criminals to die of old age. No need for cops.” He paused. “Of course, that also means the gang members would still be alive.”
“Don’t remind me of that part.” Richards stood, stretching, reaching for the ceiling. “We have to play the cards the way they’re dealt. Only the bad guys get a re-deal.” He walked to the window, stared out, then turned back to Summers. “You take off and get some rest. I have to report to the captain. If I know him, he’ll want to discuss it, point out our mistakes to encourage us not to make them again. I’ll write up a preliminary report so he’ll have something to read. Be back at one, and we’ll document everything we know. With a lot of luck, we might have an ID on the third body by then.”
Summers yawned again and rose from his chair. “Frankly, I’m not sure I care who it is. I’m with you. If Jeffries isn’t dead, he had nothing to do with nothing. And if it wasn’t him, I’m guessing it was another gang member.” He left the room.
Richards stared after him for a moment then turned to his computer. After loading the correct form, he began to type.
* * * *
Captain Jonas laid the papers on his desk. “I see what you wrote, Jim. It’s a good preliminary report. I know it was a rough night. Now give me the rest of it. How did you ID Rogers and Santiago if they were burned as badly as you wrote?”
“We got lucky. When they fell, they ended up on their backs. Each carried a wallet with his ID in his hip pocket. The fire toasted the bodies, but their butts protected the billfolds. When the ME had the remains lifted, the wallets tumbled out. The driver’s licenses survived enough to read—singed, melted, curled, but readable. Definitely Rogers and Santiago.”
“And the third body?”
“Not as lucky. He was on what may have been a sofa. Not enough of him or the sofa survived for identification. We’ll have to wait for the ME to match dentals or DNA or whatever other magic he comes up with.”
“I see.” The captain took a deep breath. “Cause of death? Don’t give me that wait for the tests bullshit. Your best guess is what I want.”
“ME said numerous sma
ll fragments of metal fell away from Rogers when they bagged him. Could be shotgun pellets, but that’s only a guess. A sawed-off shotgun was near Santiago’s body.”
“And Santiago?”
“Front of his skull has a small hole in it just above the eye sockets. The back had a chunk out. I’m guessing he took a small, powerful slug from close range.”
“The third guy?”
“A variation of Santiago. Entry wound in one temple, other side blown out. Could have been the same gun.”
“Did you find the weapon that inflicted the wounds?”
“Yes. And no. There were enough firearms laying in the ashes to outfit a platoon of marines. One of them might match. I’ll wait for ballistics and the ME to get their heads together. I’d rather not guess.”
“Serial numbers?”
“None we could see on a quick inspection. But, they probably wouldn’t have helped. Most likely, the gang had stolen their weapons—or picked them up on the street. And I doubt Rogers would use weapons that could be traced.”
“Good summary. All of it.” The captain picked up the report and read it again. He turned each page facedown on his desk to keep them in order. When he finished, he said, “Jim, how long have we worked together?”
Richards mulled the question. “Close to twenty years. Been a long time.”
“I trained you as a rookie, didn’t I?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then, you followed me up the chain with each promotion. Right?”
“Yes, sir.”
He steepled his fingers and stared at a spot above Richards’ head. “When I’m out of here, I hope you’ll sit in this chair. You know that, don’t you?”
“I appreciate your confidence, sir. But I suspect you’re buttering me up for a reason.”
“Not buttering you up. Just stating how I feel, and how well I know you. And that same ability to get in your head tells me you’re not leveling with me. There’s more here than meets my eye. You have something you don’t want to share.” He paused, giving Richards a funny look. “Whatever it is, I’ll assume you have a valid reason for not cutting me in. I’ll let it slide this time. But don’t think you can do it again—ever. I’ll have you walking a beat.” He smiled and stood. “Now get out of here and get a couple hours rest. You look like shit.”