by Mark Stone
Then, in a quick, fluid motion, the man slammed his foot onto my throat. I felt the pain sharply and immediately, cutting off my air supply and forcing pressure to build up in my head.
My hands went to the foot, tugging at it as hard as I could. It proved fruitless. I stared at the man again as my eyes started to dim. Reading his face was something else entirely now. It wasn’t meant for later, for identifying the man. No, I wasn’t going to make it out of this. This face was the face of the man who was going to end my life.
No. I heard my mother’s voice in my head. I heard my grandfather’s voice in my head. I heard Boomer’s voice, and Charlotte’s voice and, God help me, Father Jameson’s voice too. I heard all of them, and they were all telling me to keep fighting. They were all telling me that I had to get out of this. I had a life to live. I had crimes to solve. I had a nephew to help raise and I couldn’t do any of it if I just lay here and let this person take all of it away from me.
I was my grandfather’s grandson. I was a detective at the Collier County police department. I was a Florida boy who had been through worse than this. I wouldn’t let this idiot take me out, not if I could help it.
My mind raced, finally settling on a spark of an idea.
With my throat closed and no air coming into my system, I reached into my pocket. Finding my keys, I pulled them out, holding them. I would have swallowed if at all possible. I would have tried to calm myself down if there would have been time for that. I was about to pass out though. I could feel it. There was time for one more movement, one more action, and I needed to make it count.
Throwing my hand forward, I drove the pointed part of my keys into the man’s shin. He yelped and pulled away seconds after I felt the key break his skin.
Air flooded my deprived lungs as the man moved from my throat. It was cool and crisp, lifesaving as it moved through me. The man grabbed his leg, looking up at me with disdain in his eyes.
He moved back toward me, but I heard footsteps coming from behind me. He looked up, obviously hearing it too. He shook his head and turned. Hobbling toward the door, I was stunned to find the doors, once locked, push open for the man. The lockdown must have been lifted after the gunman was taken down, and now one of the people responsible for things was going to get away.
“Stop!” I started to shout, but my throat was too raw, too dry.
I stood, my vision blotchy and my legs wobbly. Feeling arms behind me, I turned quickly, panicking.
“It’s me!” Rebecca said, grabbing my arm. “What happened? Who was that?”
“We need to stop him,” I said, swallowing even though it hurt like hell, and coating my throat with soothing saliva. “We need to—”
“You need to be seen by someone,” Rebecca said. “You’ve been hurt, and you—”
I pulled away, wobbling backward. “I’m doing my job, Rebecca,” I said. “I have to do my job.”
Turning, I grabbed ahold of my gun and then of the wall and used it to steady myself. Walking as quickly and straight as I could, I moved toward the door, hoping against hope that I would be able to catch him.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Boomer on his knees as I passed Father Jameson’s room.
My heart jumped. If there was another person here, someone else involved in all of this who had forced Boomer to his knees, then I needed to be there to help him.
I turned to the room, holding my gun up and steadying myself. There was no one else there. No one was endangering Boomer. Instead, the reason he was on his knees was so much worse.
Taking in the room, I saw with a sickening thud the reason Boomer was on the floor.
There, hanging from a noose tied to the ceiling, was the dead body of Father Jameson.
Chapter 17
“Take this,” my grandfather said, offering me a Dixie cup full of water and a worried look.
“I’m fine,” I said, waving the cup off.
“I wasn’t asking, Dilly,” he said. “You’ve been through hell. Just about got yourself killed to hear your girlfriend tell it. The least you can do to ease an old man’s mind is drink a cup of water.”
I glared up at him, shaking my head but taking the cup. “We went out on one date. That doesn’t make her my girlfriend.” I looked over across the living room, to Debbie comforting Boomer. “And I got out easy.” I swigged the water. It burned going down. Crushing the paper cup in my hand, I looked back up at my grandfather, staring at him like I was a little kid asking for absolution after failing a math test. “I should have done more.”
“Don’t you do that to yourself,” my grandfather said, sitting down on the Boomer’s living room couch next to me. After finding Father Jameson hanging from the ceiling and having him officially pronounced dead, Debbie convinced her husband to come back home. There was nothing he could do at the hospital and, besides, the place needed to be looked over by officers who hadn’t just been embroiled in this tragedy on a personal level. As such, a bit of a group had gathered there, serving as an impromptu (and certainly unofficial) memorial and mourning service for our local priest and friend. Only Emma (one of the few people Boomer trusted to take care of things when he couldn’t) and Rebecca (who was performing surgery) were absent from our little group.
Our community had turned out in full force for Father Jameson, and it couldn’t have happened for a better man.
“You did everything you could,” my grandfather said, patting me on the back and patting me.
“Not nearly enough obviously,” I said, running my hands through my hair. “I got played, Grandpa, and I let it happen.” I blinked hard, flicking moisture from the forefront of my vision. “And a good man died because of that.”
“A good man died because bad men exist,” my grandfather said, his “suffer no fools” tone plain in his words. “You don’t get credit for the devil’s work, and you don’t put unrealistic expectations on yourself. You understand that?” His palm stayed flat on my back, a stalwart comfort through my sea of despair. “You’re a good man, Dilly. I’d like to take credit for that, but the truth is, you always were. Even as a little kid, you knew right from wrong, like there was some kind of innate northern star inside you, guiding you to what was right. You trust in that, and it’ll keep guiding you, but it won’t make you perfect, son. You can’t carry what’s not yours to hold. Only the Lord can do that.”
“I know that,” I said, shaking my head and pushing up off the couch. I needed to move around. Otherwise, I was going to lose my damned mind. “I’ve just got a lot of work to do. That’s all.”
“It’s good work though, isn’t it, son? Important work,” my grandfather said, looking up at me, half solemn, half proud.
“Yes sir,” I answered simply.
“Don’t forget that,” he answered. “It’s important.”
I nodded and turned, walking over to Debbie and Boomer. My heart thudded a little as I neared them. As much as I was hurting, it wasn’t a ripple in comparison to the tidal wave of hurt that was likely moving through my best friend right now.
“You okay?” I asked, settling in front of the pair, but directing my words to Boomer.
“Don’t know,” my best friend answered quietly, his eyes trained on the floor. “But I will be.” He looked up at me, his eyes red rimmed and worn. “As soon as we find the son of a bitch who did this.”
“Boomer,” Debbie said, squeezing her husband’s hand. “This isn’t the time for that.”
“No,” he said, his eyes not moving from me. “But it will be. One day, Dil. That’s what I’m giving us. One day to cry and mourn and get all of it out. After that, I’m getting justice for this man and, so help me God, I won’t stop until I have it.”
“Good,” I muttered.
“Dillon,” Debbie said, glaring at me. “I need to bring some ice in from the cooler outside. Would you be a gentleman and help me?”
“Of course,” I said, narrowing my eyes at her. I knew there was more to this than ice. She wouldn’t call me out
for that, not when I was one of the only people her grief stricken husband would even talk to right now. She wanted to talk to me about something she wasn’t sure she wanted her husband to hear, and I was curious to see what that might be.
I stepped back and let Debbie walk outside. Following her, I was less than surprised when she turned to me before we made it to the cooler. She stared, warm air coming off the gulf blowing through her hair.
“I’m sorry, Deb,” I said, nodding firmly. “I know you asked me not to involve Boomer, and I did that. If there was a way around it—”
“Of stop it,” Debbie said, waving me off. “I’m a big girl, Dillon. Boomer and I have been married for a long time. I know the drill by now. You couldn’t have kept that from him if you wanted to, at least not legally. I know you were doing what you had to do, but that doesn’t make what I said any less true, especially now.” She shuffled uncomfortably. “He wasn’t ready to deal with this stuff and, now that Father Jameson is dead, that’s even more true. He wants to give himself a day, and I really think he believes that’ll be enough time, but we both know better, don't we?”
“Boomer’s strong, Deb,” I said flatly.
“He is,” she agreed. “And so are you. That priest was like his father though. Let me ask you a question, Dillon. If it was your grandfather in the morgue today, if you knew you were going to live the rest of your life without ever hearing his voice again, without ever being able to ask him for advice or even just sit next to him in silence, do you think a day would be all it would take to get you thinking straight again?”
The idea was so horrible, so ridiculously painful, that I had trouble making it stick in my mind. If my grandfather was gone so quickly, so suddenly, I wasn’t sure a lifetime would be enough for me to get my head on straight, let alone a day.
“We both know the answer to that, Deb,” I said.
“Good,” she said, nodding. “Then we’re both on the same page. Now, I’m not sure what sort of horrible people you’re dealing with and, from what I can tell, you might not even know yourselves. Whoever they are seem deadly dangerous though, maybe more dangerous than anyone either of you have come across.” She walked a little closer, bridging the gap between us. “Now, my husband isn’t usually a spontaneous person. I can usually tell you what his days looked like without ever even having to talk to him, but this is different. I’m honestly not sure what he’ll do. I can control that at home, but not when he’s at work, not when he’s dealing with dangerous people. I need you to promise me you’ll keep him in check. Don’t let him get himself killed trying to find Fr. Jameson’s killer. He has a family. He has daughters, and we both know that’s not what that sweet old priest would have wanted for him.” She pursed her lips. “Promise me that, Dillon. Promise me.”
“Of course,” I said, blinking at her. “Nobody else dies from this. Now I need you to do me a favor.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Tell me where Charlotte is,” I said.
“Charlotte?” she asked, tilting her head curiously. “Last I saw her, she was making finger sandwiches in the kitchen for the guests. Why?”
“Because,” I said, already moving back inside and toward the kitchen. “Boomer might be giving himself a day, but I’m not. I’m going to work right this minute.”
Chapter 18
“Are you sure?” I asked, looking over at Charlotte from across the counter in Boomer’s kitchen. A pile of finger sandwiches lay in front of her; turkey, ham, even fresh snapper off the grill were assorted, cut, and ready to be served to the throngs of somber mourners gathered in the living area. They would all have to wait though, because my ex girlfriend and I had some talking to do.
She looked at me like I was insane, like the question I’d asked was the most ridiculous thing in the world. Sighing, she set the knife she had been using flat on the counter and shook her head.
“Of course I’m sure, Dilly,” she said, looking down at the earrings and then back up at me. “They were the first things you ever bought me. I’m not going to forget that.”
A flash of warmth ran through me like bath water thinking about the night in question, when two crazy kids who were sure they’d never need anything in the entire world outside of the love they felt for each other at that moment, exchanged gifts.
She gave me a belt, the old timey Western kind with my name stitched across the side, and I gave her the earrings, inscriptions of my own on them.
“I swore I’d never let them go when you gave them to me.” She smiled slightly. “I swore I’d never let you go too. Guess I struck out on both of those.”
I took a deep breath, shuffling uneasily and glaring at her.
“Charlotte,” I started.
“Oh stop, Dilly,” she said, smiling and handing the earrings back to me. “I’m not mooning over you or anything like that. I’m just dancing down memory lane for a minute. Don’t tell me you’ve never gone down that with the two of us.”
“Memory lane?” I asked, grinning sheepishly. “I practically own property there.”
She ran a hand through her red curls and turned from me, moving her attention back to the snapper on the stove.
“Wouldn’t you rather grill those up?” I asked, moving around the counter and settling beside her. The smell of the fresh snapper wafted toward me and made my mouth water.
“I’m not firing up someone else’s grill, Dilly,” she answered, flipping the fish. “There’s a difference between helping out and a celebration. Today is perfect for one and not at all appropriate for the other.” She shrugged. “Besides, I’m sort of surprised Debbie even let me through the door, much less asked me to help. I don’t want to push my luck.”
It was true. Debbie and Charlotte never got along. For the life of me, I couldn’t say why. It was like they didn’t like the look of each other or something. Whatever the reason, the women seemed to have put it behind them for the day, and that was worth something.
“The earrings,” I said, moving the conversation back to the matter at hand. “When do you think you lost them?”
“I didn’t lose them,” she said. Looking back over at me, she motioned for me to grab a plate from the counter. I did so, and she started placing the fish on it to cool down before she cut them down into sandwiches. “I told you, I would never let go of something like that.”
“So how did you then?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at her.
“They were stolen,” she said flatly. “Plain and simple.”
“You sure about that?” I asked, biting my bottom lip. “Who do you think stole them?”
“I know,” she said, shaking her head again. “I know who stole them, Dilly. It was Oscar.”
My heart skidded to a stop. I hadn’t heard that name in years and if I’d gone another century before hearing it again, it would be too soon.
“Your Uncle Oscar?” I asked, my hands clenching into fists at my sides. “What the hell is he doing out of prison?”
“Stealing my stuff and disappearing apparently,” she answered, pulling the last fish from the stovetop and transferring it to the plate.
Charlotte’s uncle had been something of a terror ever since any of us could remember. When we were kids, the man was just a drunk; a jobless drain on the Florida economy who was satisfied to sit around all down and watch television. He graduated to dealing drugs and then robbing the liquor stores he frequented. By the time we were in high school, Oscar was serving twenty years for his third armed robbery conviction. So what the hell was he doing walking the streets now?
“Good behavior,” Charlotte sneered, rolling her eyes. “As ironic as that seems.”
“And you were in contact with him?” I asked, blinking hard.
“You could say that,” Charlotte said, grabbing the plate from me and placing it on the counter. “Seeing as how he lived with me.”
“You’re not serious,” I sighed, crossing my arms over my chest and falling backward against the wall. “Are you insan
e, Char? Why the hell would you let that waste of space live with you? You have a son to think about.”
She looked at me with anger and more than a little protectiveness in her eyes. “You’re answering your own question, Dilly,” she said. “Oscar might have been a rat, and he might have been self destructive, but he was family. Besides, it had been years. He had changed a lot while in prison, studied the Bible, finally got his GED. I wanted to show Isaac that people deserved another chance. I figured that if I could that, then maybe—”
The breath caught in her throat and she turned away from me.
“What?” I asked, reaching out and touching her shoulder. “Charlotte, tell me what’s wrong.”
“I’m being stupid, is all,” she said, wiping her eyes and turning back to me. “I know I’m protective of Isaac when it comes to his father. I know I’ve always put on that ‘I don’t want Peter around him’ act, but the truth is, I’ve always known there would come a time when Isaac will start asking about him, when he might need him.”
“That won’t happen,” I said, squeezing her shoulder. “I’m here, Char. I’m always going to be here for that little boy. For you too. It’s why I moved back here.”
“I know that,” she said. “And I appreciate it, but it’s not the same. I know you had your grandfather and I know Isaac has you, but it’s not the same as having his father. Surely you know that.”
“I do,” I admitted. “I just—”
“I figured if there ever came a time when Peter changed his stripes, when he thought he might want to be in his son’s life—”