Dead Tide

by Stephen A. North

  “Hey Dodd, what’s that aroma?” says Yates.

  “What do you mean?” snarls Dodd with his eyes narrowed to slits. “You go fishing or something before coming to work?” asks Yates.

  He grins while pinching his nostrils closed. “Smells like rotten shrimp.” “I don’t smell anything, do you Talaski?” says Dodd, turning toward

  the man sitting behind him. Talaski shrugs. “Might just be your natural

  body odor. Is that the uniform you wore yesterday?”

  “Okay people that’s enough.” The shift sergeant, Patterson, looks at

  his clipboard and frowns. “Three call-outs and Powell’s on vacation.

  The lieutenant tells me we’ve had some freaky shit going on all day on

  top of that. Looks like it’s shaping up to be a great night, boys and girls.” This elicits a few groans from the assembled police officers. “And shut your stinkin’ yap, Talaski. You, Williams and Dodd will

  have your usual sections plus those of our sick fellow officers. Yates will

  take Powell’s area. Talaski has a ride-along this evening. Try not to scare

  him off. Anybody got any questions?”

  “I’ve got one, Sergeant,” says Talaski, raising a hand.

  Patterson rolls his eyes. “Save it, Ski, my sense of humor is already

  shot for the day. Let’s get moving people.”

  Talaski heads toward the door, following the crowd.

  8

  “Ski, wait up,” he hears Yates say. Officer Jacques Yates, a FrenchCanadian by birth, is a friend. They both slow down. “I can’t believe Dodd couldn’t smell it. You used almost a whole can of that fish spray on his pants, didn’t you? One of these days he’ll catch you, Nick, and then…”

  Talaski raises an eyebrow and shrugs. “What makes you think he’ll catch me before he catches you? I’m smarter than you, Frenchie, remember?”

  “Oh, what do you know? Luck plays an equal role along with intelligence.”

  “How can I argue with logic like that?”

  “So you got a ride-along… Have fun!”

  Ride-alongs are almost always troublesome. But not this time… “He’s a friend. It shouldn’t be too bad. Maybe I’ll see you later, Jock.”

  “Yeah, I’ll look for you.”

  T HERE IS SOMETHING FOREBODING about the design of the St. Petersburg Police Station. The resemblance to a fortress seems to be more than coincidental. Keller can almost picture a pencil-necked architect saying, “We were looking for a severe, but functional design,” in a thin reedy voice. Maybe they were looking for intimidating? If that is the case, they succeeded as far as he is concerned.

  He crosses 1st Avenue North and walks up the short flight of steps to the entrance to Building One. Just before he enters he glances over at Building Two and its keycard entrance. Security is the watchword here. He notices a smoker’s cage attached to Building One in the breezeway between the two buildings, then he enters the lobby. Off to his right is a large L-shaped desk with civilian employees and a waiting area with a bench and a lot of empty space.

  He walks over to the desk. A young woman with pale blonde hair glances up from a stack of paperwork. She smiles at him and says, “How

  9

  can I help you sir?” She has a Dutch boy haircut, pouty lips and observant green eyes. Altogether a potent package. He finds himself smiling back. “I’m Matt Keller, the ride-along with Officer Talaski tonight.”

  “I’m jealous,” she says. “I’ll be stuck here all night.”

  “Maybe I can tell you about it later?” he says, and gives her a cocky smile.

  She looks straight into his eyes, and a nervous little smile comes and goes. “I think I’d like that Matt. I’m Amy.”

  “Pleased to meet you Amy.”

  “Just take a seat out there, Matt, and I’m sure Officer Talaski will be along any time now.”

  A door opens just to the left of the desk. It has a card reader slot for access. A voice booms out, “You ready Matt?” His friend, Nick Talaski, is standing there.

  Keller grins. “I’d rather stay here and talk to Amy, but I told you I’d go…” He looks up and Amy is blushing.

  “Don’t scare this one away, Nick,” she says. “He might be a keeper.”

  “You say that now, but his charm wears thin pretty quick.”

  “Okay, let’s go Nick, before you embarrass me any more than you already have,” says Keller, noticing the impish grin on Talaski’s face. He knows this is going to be bad. Instinctively, he tries to hurry—

  “Man, did you just crap yourself?” asks Talaski in an all too loud voice. “That stench brings tears to my eyes.” He waves his hand dramatically.

  Keller looks back once and sees Amy trying to frown, but laughing. “He always blames someone else,” she says.

  “Ah, I’m saved,” he says beneath his breath.

  “She likes you,” says Talaski, and pushes him through the exit before he can say more.

  The two men go out and cross over 1st Avenue North, walk about thirty feet and enter a fenced parking area. There is no lock at the moment, but the door has a place for a shackle.

  “Now listen,” says Talaski. “You don’t have any weapons on you?”

  Keller smiles. “I don’t have any weapons on me.”

  “Remember this: See as much as you want to see. Get involved as much as you want to… Just get out of the car. And, if someone throws a punch at me feel free to join in. Got it?”

  “All clear officer!”

  10

  “Good, glad we got that over. Now, here’s your radio. You aren’t supposed to have one, but don’t sweat it. Just clip it onto your belt like this. Any questions?”

  “Is Amy single?” Talaski rolls his eyes, then shakes his head. “You’re on your own there. I barely even know her.”

  “She seems to have an opinion about you…”

  “They form one the moment they see me.”

  Keller snorts laughter. “Well, that’s true.”

  F OR JUST A MOMENT there is nothing but the pain and the leaden weight of loss heavy in his chest and centered around his heart. Grief and hate are at war within him, doing strange things. He tries to focus on the design worked into the grip of the pistol in his hands, and so far his cheeks are dry, but he can barely contain the urge to howl in pain. So he takes a moment or two hoping to clear his mind.

  The nearest streetlight is a block away and it flickers. Sometimes during the flicker the light is out close to a minute. The next closest lights come from the houses across the street, but they are few and muted behind curtains. He stands beneath an oak tree and gazes at the small frame house up on cinder blocks. A Dodge Neon is also up on cinder blocks in the front yard. The yard is mostly foot high weeds and garbage of all types is scattered across it. He can’t tell if any lights are on in the house.

  Behind him, two blocks away, he can hear cars going by. As always, traffic is brisk on 22nd Avenue South. He hears them only on a subconscious level, because he is focused.

  Someone whispers his name in the darkness, then again, “Bronte?” “Be quiet Tracks! Someone hears you and I’ll shoot you first.” Tracks grunts, and is silent, but Bronte can still hear his heavy

  breathing. Tracks has had his septum deviated a few too many times and is now primarily a mouth breather.

  11

  At six foot three and three hundred and fifty pounds, he is a good man to have at your back to be sure, but not especially bright. Still, a lack of intelligence can be a good thing when things get heavy.

  “Okay Tracks, do you remember the plan?”

  “When you give the word, I knock the door down.”

  “Good. Now just wait while I go check out around back.” Tracks grunts an answer. Bronte takes two or three steps when he

  hears a scream and dogs barking with a savagery that stops him dead. The sounds all come from the house across the street. Bronte stops, and turns slowly to face across
the street. Should he let this stop him, he wonders. “We’ll wait,” he whispers. “Let’s see if anyone calls the cops.”

  Tracks grunts again. Bronte is used to it, so he lets it go. Either the big man understands or he doesn’t. Why worry? He’s been a steady fixture in his life for so long; sometimes he takes him for granted.

  “Bad shit going down in there, Bronte. Be best we leave.” “Like I said,” Bronte says, “we’ll wait and see.”

  “It’s probably too late, anyway.” Tracks’ voice is raspier than usual.

  WHEN COMPARED TO THE SURROUNDING NEIGHBORHOOD and the other strip stores, the brightly lit convenience store stands out like a beacon. The topmost sign, nearest the top of the flat roof, reads, ‘Sheff’s Food Town and Discount Meats’ and underneath, ‘Cigs, Beer, and Lotto.’ One car is parked near the entrance and three people are standing in front of the laundromat next door. They appear to be female.

  The wheels of the St. Petersburg Police cruiser crunch across broken glass in the street and into the parking lot. The driver slows down near the people and says, “Hey you, Dirty Sanchez, come here.”

  One of the three straightens up, cupping a now lit cigarette. “All I’m doing is having a smoke, Officer Ski. You got no reason to call me dirty names.” The voice is Puerto Rican accented English with a husky tone. “Are you finally ready to jump the fence?” She steps into the light spilling from Sheff’s. Her face is almost pretty with high cheek bones, a creamy chocolate complexion and full, pouting lips. The small tank top does nothing to conceal her enormous cantaloupe breasts, and her miniskirt reveals a lot of thigh.

  “That’s a man, Matt,” Officer Nick Talaski whispers to the man beside him in the cruiser. The other man, a civilian ride-along named Matt Keller, laughs until he coughs violently in a cupped fist. “All three are men, as a matter of fact.”

  Dirty Sanchez bends at the waist and looks into the cruiser. “Who’s your beefy friend?”

  A voice from the radio cuts off Talaski’s answer. “Three three two bravo copy?”

  Talaski answers, “Three two bravo fifty five twenty two.”

  “Proceed to location at two three, thirty-six twenty-four. Violent domestic in progress. Unknown weapons. Caller can hear screaming next door. Rescue is staging.”

  The cruiser is already rolling as Talaski answers, “Super. En route.”

  “COULD IT HAVE BEEN THOSE GODDAMN TURKEY LEGS?” he’d heard his father ask over an hour ago. His Dad’s voice was always loud. He thought his mother may have answered, but he couldn’t be sure. Most of the time, unless one of his parents stood just beneath the door, he couldn’t hear them. This time his father’s voice came through loud and clear.

  “I asked you a question woman. I expect to be answered.” Daric didn’t like the edge in his father’s voice. Angry was okay, but drunk and angry was a bad combination. He closes his eyes. His mother makes an awful groaning sound and he hears his father say, “What the…” Then from below, the sounds of people struggling, heavy breathing and then his two dogs start to bark. But not for long.

  Daric clutches his almost forgotten teddy bear in the darkness and tries not to listen.

  TWO DOORS DOWN FROM THE RESIDENCE of Tyrese and Lanita Jenkins, Talaski cuts the engine and the lights on his cruiser. He hands Keller a heavy duty flashlight. “Stay back near the sidewalk. Let me and the others approach the house. The one thing you can do for me is watch for a crowd. If one starts to form and they get angry we’ll need to get the fuck out of here quick.”

  “I’ll do it,” says Keller. Two other cruisers pull up behind Talaski’s. The sound of the car doors opening and closing seems loud. Keller catches himself holding his breath. Two officers exit the vehicles; one is a tall, lanky white guy and the other is a small, petite black woman. Both of them follow Talaski over the lawn and up to the front door of the Jenkins’ residence, a block house with three windows on the front side, two to the left of the front door and one to the right. The far left window and the middle window have air conditioners in them, and Keller noticed stacked cardboard boxes inside the third. Talaski takes the two steps up to the small porch in front of the middle window and the door and steps to the left side. The tall cop follows him and steps to the right. The female cop says, “I’m Williams. Just stay out of the way and keep your mouth shut. If things start to go to hell, just run.”

  Talaski bangs on the door, which has security bars mounted over jalousie glass. “Police! Open up!” For a moment or two there is silence, then Talaski repeats himself and bangs on the door some more. There is a faint light coming through the glass door and Keller thinks something moves. He is dimly aware that he has just sighed. Nervousness maybe? “Did you see that Williams?” he hisses. A shape is framed in the light. The doorknob rattles and the door opens in. A man stumbles forward. Talaski and the other cop are barking orders… something about stopping. Williams says, “Oh dear Lord.”

  14

  The man is covered in blood. A bloody froth covers his nose, mouth and chin. Keller plays his flashlight over him and the man’s face is a mask of red through which the white of his teeth gleam. His arms are extended and he appears to be reaching for Talaski. “Don’t touch me sir,” he says. “Just back off, I’m not kidding.”

  The man either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t care. He manages to snag Talaski’s left arm with his bloody fingers. He attempts to pull Talaski toward him, and if anything his mouth opens wider and he leans his head forward, questing, teeth snapping together.

  “Sweet Jesus!” shouts Talaski. “This bastard’s trying to bite me!” He reaches for his holster, in what appears to be a mixture of anger and panic. The tall cop seems paralyzed. He keeps looking from the open doorway and back to Talaski. He has his shotgun out and he takes a half step toward the struggling men when Talaski’s gun goes off with a flare of fire. The shot is loud and it catches the man in the throat. He staggers back against the wall of the house, but almost immediately he springs forward again, as if unharmed. Maybe Talaski missed, Keller thinks, while stepping toward the porch. He clutches the flashlight like a club and takes a step or two before Talaski fires again. This round plucks out an eye and topples the now lifeless body off the porch. Keller reaches the porch as Talaski shouts, “Dodd, check for vital signs and give Keller your shotgun!”

  “Fuck if I’ll give a civilian my shotgun, Ski!” Dodd shouts back. Talaski looks hyped. He starts toward Dodd, but is too late. Keller slaps the taller man hard and yanks the shotgun from his hands. “Do what Ski told you, and I’ll bring you your shotgun back in a minute.” Dodd appears too shocked to reply. His eyes are wide and he is grinding his teeth.

  “Police!” shouts Talaski and kicks the door in. Glass shatters. “Where are you?! Come on out!” Talaski faces a small living room with a terrazzo floor and an area rug in the middle of the room. One recliner and a couch are against the far wall facing the front door and a 32 inch TV is immediately to the left of the door. To the right is a doorway. The TV is on.

  Talaski approaches the doorway from the left. Behind him, Keller is following, breathing maybe a little too heavy but not enough to drown out the voice of a reporter from the TV:

  “I’m Al Connors with a special news bulletin. My crew and I are here live at the intersection of U.S. 19 South and Fifty-Fourth Avenue South. Just an hour ago Police exchanged gunfire with a militant hate group known as—”

  15

  Talaski and Keller lose the rest of the commentary as they rush through the doorway and into a dining room beyond. There is a nice wooden table and four chairs. A newspaper is scattered across the table. To the right is a counter with three stools overlooking a kitchen and to the left is a hallway that apparently turns left. Talaski stops with both arms extended, hands cupping his pistol, looking into the kitchen. Keller moves quickly behind him to cover the hallway. He has the flashlight in his left hand, turned on, and the shotgun held in his right.

  “For the love of Pete, ma’am,” says Talaski.
“Stand up and move away from the dogs.” Keller looks over. He realizes that Talaski only whispered. Maybe she didn’t hear him. He is a bit startled to see a woman on her knees. She’s chowing down on something that looks like raw meat.

  “Jesus, she’s eating the dogs,” says Keller. “Let’s get out of here.” The woman looks up, as if irritated by the sound of their voices. Blood and fur are matted on her face. She is still chewing as she climbs to her feet.

  “Get back on the floor ma’am! I won’t tell you again!” Talaski is shouting with a bit of hysteria. The woman’s only response appears to be a higher level of alertness. Was she in some kind of trance while eating the dogs? She is on the other side of the table but is edging around, eyes darting between the two men.

  “You aren’t going to bite me, bitch,” says Talaski and aims his pistol between her eyes, as if hoping to scare her. He takes a step or two backwards and suddenly she is coming at him, faster than Keller thought she would, bloody fingers reaching—

  The shot is loud. The woman’s head jerks sideways and she stops in mid-stride. Keller notices a small hole just above her left eye. Her body crumples, striking a chair on the way, and is still.

  “Good shot man,” is all Keller can think to say.

  Talaski lowers his arms. “This is shaping up to be a very bad day.”

  16

  “GOODNIGHT FRANK.”

  “Good morning, Trish. See you tomorrow.” Trish smiles. Frank always corrects her. The bouncer is always a big comforting presence. Even now, he stands in the doorway of the bar, watching her, waiting until she is safely in her car. A consistently pleasant man is always a shock to her. The parking lot is pitch black and nearly empty, but he never takes chances. Maybe all he is doing is admiring her rear, but he sees a lot more of her while she is working than he could see now.

  She looks at her cell phone as she leaves the building, pushing any button to get the light to activate. Two fifteen a.m. She is a petite blonde with small delicate features and sparkling blue eyes. Well… sparkling for the first two or three hours anyway, but right now her legs are hurting, especially the knees and feet. She can never get home fast enough.