by Bryan Koepke
DAMAGE
A Reece Culver Thriller
BRYAN KOEPKE
Copyright © 2015 by Bryan Koepke
All rights reserve. No part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
Published in the United States by Writers Cabin Press, Denver, CO.
Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events herein are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
www.writerscabinpress.com
ISBN 978-0-9915824-2-6
Also by Bryan Koepke
Vengeance
Sabotage
www.bryankoepke.com
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 1
Al Culver took a breath of fresh air, stretched his arms a little, then more, and finally let out a deep groan. There it was again the same birds he’d heard three days in a row- one with its “hey baby” call, and the other whistling in a series of uneven tones. With his eyes closed, still ignoring the pain, he could see the pair high up in the thin branches bracing against the wind. They had a freedom Al could only imagine.
In his mind they were solid agile creatures capable of anything. Their beaks sharp and at the ready, they’d drop one after the other, wings tucked, heads down, and rocket earthward nearing the speed of sound. Then they’d pull up with a few flaps of their strong wings and return to the branches from which they’d come.
He thought back to a time decades earlier when he’d planted that big tree out back with his two sons. It was a day similar to this. The boys still relied on him and he was proud to be teaching them. Reece hadn’t yet discovered cowboy movies or his love of the Western frontier, and the eldest, Raymond, had just discovered his raw talent for sports. It hadn’t taken long for the boy’s coach to see that he had an arm like none other in the sixth grade. Later Ray learned to throw a spiral football pass that, when added to the strong offensive line, earned the local high school its first state championship.
Al was proud of his two boys as he thought back to the day they’d brought the six-foot sapling home and, after a few minutes of shovel work, dug the hole and firmly planted the oak tree.
Sitting up in bed, with his eyes fully open, he saw long shadows spilling in from the windows. The air smelled like a mixture of plant life and dust as it blew in, rattling the yellow curtains his wife, Helen, had hung in that very window ten years earlier.
Al let his feet dangle over the edge of the mattress. With his still strong grip, he took hold, pulled hard, and brought his hips forward until he’d planted both his feet onto the cold wooden floor beside the bed. The numbness in his right shin flashed and Al eased off, shifting his weight leftward.
Reaching toward the headboard, he grasped the gray rubber handle propped between the nightstand and the wall. It wasn’t the kind of cane you’d normally see. This thing looked more industrial with four individual black rubber cane tips, and the middle had a second adjustment for height. With the walking aid on his left side, Al Culver urged himself forward and felt the same sensation he’d endured ever since getting out of that hospital four years earlier.
It was on his right side—the side that had been battered the worst, mostly in his shin, but on cold winter mornings it could radiate from his hip down to the toes of the foot. The doctors back in St. Louis told him it was nerve damage and would most likely improve with time, but he was still waiting. With his weight on the cane, he scooted his right foot forward and then picked up the left, bringing it an equal distance until both feet were parallel. Next he reached out with the cane and repeated the movement until he’d progressed another twelve inches.
With each series of steps that at this point were more like shuffles, his mind sunk deeper and deeper toward the memory of that day. After a good twenty reaches, he’d gotten across the hall to the bathroom. In his mind that was a major milestone.
Most days his wife, Helen, if she hadn’t yet left for work, would be there in the bathroom turning on the water faucets for his shower. She was a good woman. As fine as any, in Al’s mind. He’d resisted her early on, being the tough cop that he was. He loved her more than life itself, but he had to do it for himself. They’d fought often that first year —he for his dignity, and she for the chance to help the man she so loved.
This morning he was alone in the bathroom with its cold yellow tile against his feet. He was on stiff legs with his back burning as he leaned over the edge of the tub with the cane for support in his left hand, and his right busy trying to turn on the hot water. He stood there naked at the edge trembling in cold and pain, then glance back at the full length mirror on the back of the door. The figure he saw couldn’t be his. It looked deceptively like the body of a much older man, with rounded shoulders and that pronounced hump in the middle of the back. The tops of his legs were marked in a pattern of healed scars from where three men took turns pummeling him with steel pipes as he lay trembling on the roof of that St. Clair County apartment building. He’d thought himself the aggressor and he wound up a victim.
Steam rose from the tub. Al grabbed the side and leaned in reaching for the cold-water faucet on his right. Then he turned the knob and sprung back avoiding the stream of liquid. With a hand on the support beam he and his younger son Reece fastened in a few years earlier, he climbed in. Still holding the cane in his left hand, he set it against the side of the sink, and for the first time since leaving his bed he was on his own.
He stood there in the flow of water letting his mouth pull from the frown he’d worn since rising. Warmth flowed down his back and over his thighs before worming its way toward the steel crisscross pattern of the drain. Al reached up for the bar they’d fastened below the window on the sidewall. He took it in his hand, shut his eyes, and drifted back to the day he and his partner, Haisley Averton, had spotted the blue Chrysler out in East St. Louis. They hadn’t been sure at first, as Al stomped on the gas and zoomed them forward down the narrow street, initiating the chase.
He could see the strong-bronzed forearm of his partner resting on the top of the tan console. The car in front of them was faster and more careless as it sped down the potholed asphalt into the bright morning sunshine.
The water was doing its job, and Al pushed his shoulders back, bracing against the bar in the top of the shower and standing upright for the first time since he’d left his recliner in the den the night before. Letting his lids drop again, he stared through the blackness listening to the drizzle of the water and fell back to that day in the abandoned warehouse. Haisley had warned him, and for the last few years Al had tried to digest the events of that day.
With their guns out, they got to the building and started in. Al went first—the eager young police detective wanting to catch the criminals. Haisley was just behind with his big .44 Magnum in his right hand and his police-issued .38 in the holster on his left hip the way he’d always worn it. He was prepared. Al was too, with a Smith & Wesson Presidential .357 Magnum, fancy grip and all, and a .38 revolver stuffed into the side pocket of his jacket.
Al lifted his right foot from the warm pool of water in the base of the tub, opened his eyes
, and remembered that he needed to work on the tub drain. It was on his list, a pad in the kitchen cabinet that had gotten increasing longer over the years as his condition made it more obvious to him that he no longer had the abilities he’d once relied on. He turned his foot side to side and smiled as the heat did its job loosening his stiff muscles. He closed his eyes again and went back to that day.
They heard a noise just after entering the building and froze. It was up ahead in what looked like a large open area with shiny white concrete walls in some kind of warehouse setting. Al rounded the corner and spotted a bunch of guns pointed their way. The sight of a firearm’s barrel pointed in your direction doesn’t get any easier to accept as the years go by. The crooks were camped out behind a tower of wooden crates. There was a row of large wire spindles the size of circular kitchen tables dumped over on this side of the room and clumps of black and orange tubing that had been used to house optical fiber spilling out.
Al sprinted right, made it behind the second spindle, and felt the collision of Haisley’s shoulder against his shoe a few seconds later just as the gunfire stared. Big splinters of wood caught air and rained down on them as the mobsters unloaded with a barrage of violence. The noise was horrific. They didn’t know whom they were shooting at and probably didn’t care. They just wanted Al and his partner, Haisley, gone.
He remembered sliding his gun over the top of the curved wood and pulling the trigger seven times in quick succession, emptying it, and in doing so saying hello back to them. Haisley had been slower and more precise, and after two shots Al heard the sound a man makes when opened up with the hot lead projectile from a large caliber firearm. It was an “oomph” noise followed by an agonizing whine, or maybe a shriek. One down and a bunch more to go.
Al could see himself now moving in the distant memory like an actor on the big screen, scooting right looking for a vantage point and then spotting a staircase going up the far wall. He stopped at a point where two of the big spools were pushed together making a perfect peephole. He could see the beady eyes of the man they’d come for on the other side nearest to the right and sliding toward a staircase.
Al reached back to tap Haisley’s shoe, pointed toward the stairs, and saw his partner on his cellphone.
“We’ve got backup coming,” Haisley yelled above the shots that ricocheted off the concrete wall behind them.
“Looks like our guy is headed up those stairs. If he is I’m going after him,” Al said.
“Culver, don’t play hero. Wait for the others. He’s not going to get away this time. We can get him…”
Just then the guy Al had zeroed in on made a break for it. He remembered giving Haisley a nod and with both his guns firing he kept low and ran after the mobster. Getting to the stairway was easy, and before he knew it, Al was up on the next floor chasing what looked like two men. He’d only seen the one and wondered where the second had come from. A bullet came his way. He lunged back left out of the site line. The lead projectile slammed into the concrete, splintering into gray dust and missed his head by an inch. Al’s ears rung and he felt shell-shocked, as down below the gunfire continued.
Chapter 2
The swivel seat squeaked as Al eased his weight off the cane and let the full weight of his body register on the chair. Two cameras, the old Canon SLR he’d taken the day he’d picked his son Reece up at the airport for his July 4th holiday visit, and its replacement, a Nikon digital with what the clerk said had better optics, lay on the desk in front of him.
He pressed the button on the side of the laptop, pulled out the memory card, and held it up. To Al it looked fine, but for some reason the data had either been erased or never written to memory. With the cordless phone in his right hand, Al punched in the numbers off the beige business card.
“Ralph Eagleton, attorney at law off. How may I assist you?” a nasally female voice announced.
“Hey, Sandra. Al Culver here for Mr. Eagleton.”
“Oh, Mr. Culver. He’s on another call right now. Would you like to leave a message? Or if you’ll stay on the line I’ll buzz him for ya.”
“I’ll wait.”
Al moved the mouse around the screen of his laptop computer until it settled on the link to his favorite sports site. He clicked the logo and watched the page come up. The New York Yankees were clearly in the lead of the American League, and Philadelphia looked like a safe bet for the National League. The Colorado Rockies, his son Reece’s team, were five games behind.
“Mr. Culver. Mr. Eagleton’s done with that call now. I’ll transfer you over,” the receptionist said.
“Sounds good, Sandra.”
“Hey, Al, how’s it going today? Did you get those pictures?” Eagleton said.
“Well, I thought I had this thing all wrapped up,” Al said, “but I ran into a little snag. We caught up with them driving down Broadway, but something must have gone haywire on the camera. My son Reece got five or ten real good shots, so we broke off so they wouldn’t spot us. Trouble is that damned memory card is empty.”
“Empty? Are you sure about that?”
“Yup, I even took it by the camera store to have them check it.”
That’s a shame, Al,” Eagleton said, taking a drink of something. “So you saw that guy with his mistress?”
“We did. Me and my boy Reece both did,” Al said. “He was out here for the holiday weekend. We had that guy and the mistress right in our sights. If it hadn’t been for this darned camera, you’d have all the evidence you wanted. That blonde was all over him with her shirt off as they drove up Broadway in the middle of lunch-hour traffic. That guy’s got some nerve.”
“So if this case goes to trial you could take the stand and testify to what you witnessed that day?” Eagleton said.
“I could do that if it goes it trial, but wouldn’t pictures be better?”
“Yeah, I always like to have physical evidence if it can be attained. You know what they say about a picture being worth a thousand words,” Eagleton said.
“How long do I have?” Al heard the chime alerting that the coffee he’d just brewed was done. He lifted the glass carafe off of the burner and poured a cup. “I mean if I could have a few more day’s… I expect I could catch up with that guy again and get you some pictures.”
“Well, I guess I’m not in that big of a hurry.”
“I got a replacement camera. What’s the chance this one will go bad?”
“Tell you what,” Eagleton said sounding pensive. “You got another week. I know your situation. I’ll pay you half what we agreed on this time around. Does that sound okay with you?”
“So that’s in addition to the five hundred dollars you already paid,” Al said.
“It is. If it were anyone else I wouldn’t do it, but you and I, we have history.”
Chapter 3
Al sat in his car still parked in the driveway with the radio playing softly. He had time now, and with any luck he’d be able to spot the guy in the blue Corvette a second time. It might be a little more challenging to snap pictures while driving his 1970 Pontiac, but without a second pair of hands, that was the way it would have to be.
The pain pill he’d just crushed between his molars tasted dry going down, and Al wished he’d brought a thermos bottle. He just needed a little bump to take the edge off. He’d told himself only one a day, and over the past month he’d kept to that, but for some reason today was different.
With his eyes almost closed, he drifted back, shunting off all of his senses except for his hearing. All it would have taken was the distant sound of a car door slamming and he’d be back ready for anything, but for now there was time to live in his daydreams. His memories were all he had now, and to Al they were like some kind of medication. It didn’t take much to return—it was as if everything he’d experience since paled in comparison.
With his revolver reloaded there on the landing of the concrete stairways, four years earlier Al took off after his mark, slowing at each turn in the stairs
ready to be fired upon, but counting himself lucky each time nothing came. He continued up and knew he must be close to the top when he heard the slam of a heavy door somewhere up above.
Every single one of the detectives knew this guy’s face, his crime sheet, and how badly the captain wanted his arrest. The man in charge had said just a few days earlier that if someone on the force had the brains and balls to get this guy there’d be a promotion involved. Al needed that more than most, he figured. His wife, Helen, had her dream about a lake house back where she’d spent her childhood west of Tulsa. He wasn’t old enough for retirement, but that topic was never too far from the mind of a cop.
He heard the gun blast before the bullets hit the wall to his left, or at least he thought he had. Al ducked and for a moment felt heat in his scalp and thought he’d been hit. Then he realized it was a wayward piece of concrete that peeled off the sidewall and smacked him in the side of the head. He reached up like a snake lunging at a rabbit and brought his hand back dry after checking for blood. That was good, but the pain was there the way it is when someone popped you in the side of the head with a snowball.
He caught his breath and, after what seemed like couple of minutes, took off up the steps. After two flights, Al came to a primer red door that he knew led out to the roof.
He remembered stopping and checking both guns before slowly pushing open the door. Al knew full well he could be ambushed. He listened and heard the sound of feet running north across the roof. He flew out from behind the door and spotted the guy he was after in his flashy white blazer and pressed blue dress pants fleeing about a hundred yards distant. The guy looked more scared than charming and Al fought the urge he felt to take a shot. Instead he gave chase with both guns drawn. The bald-headed bastard dodged right, around an air conditioning unit, and Al sped up his pace. His street shoes were no match for the small rocks that made up the top of the building and it wasn’t long before he felt a pebble in his right shoe with every step he took.