by P J Parrish
“Loon-11, what’s the situation out there?” It wasn’t Edna’s calm voice now. It was Gibralter’s, hard and firm.
Louis reached across Ollie for the radio but froze as he saw Ollie’s eyes looking up at him. They were dull. It took a moment before he realized the pulsating under his fingers had stopped.
He slowly withdrew his hand, staring at it. For a second, the radio traffic stopped and it was absolutely silent.
A deep, slicing pain moved through him, doubling him over. He pressed his bloody hand to his forehead.
“Loon-11!” Gibralter shouted.
Louis squeezed his eyes closed, his fist banging on the roof of the cruiser.
“Kincaid!”
Numbly, he reached back for the radio. He turned away from Ollie and clicked on the radio but when he tried to speak the words caught in his throat. He knew what he needed to say. He had heard it before a hundred times. But not for real. On television and in the movies. Not for real. Not for real.
“Central…we have…we have a 10–99.”
He looked up quickly, up into the snowflakes.
“Officer down.”
There was silence. Then, suddenly, the radio burst alive with urgent voices. Other Loon Lake officers, and on the other channel, the sheriff’s department.
Edna silenced them all with a few words. “Hold all traffic. Loon-11?”
Louis wiped his face with his sleeve and looked down the empty road in the direction of the sirens. He raised the radio back to his mouth, lowering his head into his hand.
“Suspect is armed with a large-caliber…rifle. In a vehicle of unknown description…headed…headed east on Road 329.”
“Eleven!” Gibralter shouted. “What kind of description is that? What happened out there? Did you return fire? Where are you?”
“I don’t…affirmative, affirmative.”
The sirens were closer, the wails rising and falling on the wind. In his clouded head, they sounded almost human.
His fingers gripped the radio as his mind grappled to hold on to some sense of reality. He could smell the blood on his hands, strangely metallic. Ollie’s blood. He looked down at his hand. It was covered with blood. The radio was covered with blood. His pants legs were stained with blood. He stared at it in morbid curiosity. It was black…not red, black.
“Loon-11!” Gibralter yelled. “What’s happening out there?”
Something drifted into his dulled mind in that moment, something about the rifle. He keyed the radio. The words flooded forward on a wave of anger and he could not stop them.
“Coward!” he spat into the radio. “He’s a fucking coward! Lacey used a goddamn nightscope! He didn’t have a chance! Ollie didn’t have a chance!” Louis’s voice cracked into a sob and he gulped in a cold, icy breath.
“Kincaid!”
“We can’t catch him! We need help. Damn it, can’t you see that? We need help!”
“Loon-11, pull yourself together!”
Louis threw the radio down to the wet asphalt. It bounced and gave out a final burst of static. He lifted his face to the sky. He could feel the flakes settling on his face, feel each one, so terribly gentle.
CHAPTER 27
His teeth were chattering and he clenched them to make them stop. He looked up into the black sky, trying to find a place to store the vivid images that swam in his mind. And so many sounds. Wailing sirens. Radio static. Shouts. All these men shouting and he was doing nothing.
A door slammed and Louis spun around. Ambulance, just the ambulance. It pulled away slowly, with no sense of urgency.
Someone touched him and he turned. Jesse was a silhouette against the glare of the spotlights aimed at Ollie’s cruiser. For a second, the voices and sirens seemed muted.
Jesse reached for him. Louis stiffened, pulling back. But the need for touch, for human contact, was too strong. Slowly, he surrendered to Jesse’s embrace. He closed his eyes, lowering his head to the stiff nylon of Jesse’s jacket.
“Harrison!”
Jesse pulled back, leaving a void of cold wind. Louis blinked to focus on Gibralter’s silhouette as it came toward him.
“How did this happen?” Gibralter whispered hoarsely.
How did this happen? How did this happen? Louis’s eyes drifted to the spotlit cruiser, dark forms crawling around it, over it, in it.
“Kincaid! How did this happen?”
It happened because I let Lacey go. It happened because I went into the field and Ollie stayed by the cruiser. It happened because I couldn’t get back to Ollie in time. It happened because I didn’t react fast enough, I didn’t shoot straight enough, I didn’t, I didn’t, I didn’t…
“I want your report tonight,” Gibralter said, bringing him back.
Did he say “Yes, sir,” or nod? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that Gibralter had turned away. In the glare of the lights, Louis was vaguely aware of Jesse hovering somewhere nearby. The sounds came to him again — the voices, the radios, the rush of noise that hurt his head.
“Damn it…damn it.”
It took him a moment to separate the words from the noise. It was Gibralter repeating the words to himself.
“Damn it…why him?”
The last two words made Louis look up. Why him? He looked over again at the cruiser and in his mind saw Ollie lying on the front seat, felt the warmth of Ollie’s blood as it pulsed against his hand. Why him?
He looked back to see Gibralter watching him. The words were unspoken but there in his eyes. Why not you?
Gibralter turned and walked away.
Louis moved woodenly back to Gibralter’s Bronco. He reached in the driver’s side and picked up a clipboard. He slowly unzipped his jacket and fumbled for a pen. His hand touched the rough nylon of the vest. For the first time, he became aware of its weight, became aware, too, of the dull ache above his kidney where the vest had stopped Lacey’s bullet.
He threw the clipboard to the seat and yanked off his jacket. He tore at the Velcro strips, pulled the vest over his head and threw it to the floor of the Bronco. He stood for a few moments, breathing heavily. He shut his eyes tight.
Stop, stop…stop! He opened his eyes to look at the shapes moving around him. State troopers, deputies, crime-scene techs. He saw the familiar blue parkas of his own department’s officers. He saw, far off in the snowy field, the play of flashlights as men searched for where Lacey had been hiding. The men were doing their jobs. He had to pull himself together to do his.
He picked up the clipboard and sat down on the edge of the passenger seat, pulling his jacket up over his shoulders. He faced away from the field and the lights.
Slowly, the words came. They came, the words that explained what had happened, pouring out onto the lined form. They were the words of his job, words like suspect, victim and pursuit and shots fired, words unweighted with emotion. Safe, efficient, unhuman words, and he found comfort in their blankness.
When he was done he set the report aside and leaned back in the seat. A huge wave of fatigue rolled slowly over him and he had to fight to keep his eyes open. He pushed himself up, put on his jacket and got out of the Bronco.
He searched the crowd for Gibralter, finally spotting him standing by the open door of Ollie’s cruiser. Louis walked over to him.
“The report is finished. What do you want me to do now?”
“Go home,” Gibralter said, not looking at him.
“Chief — ”
“I said go home.”
“I need to be here.”
“This isn’t about what you need, Kincaid. You’re on administrative leave pending psychiatric evaluation.”
“A shrink? I don’t need a shrink.”
“It’s departmental policy. Make an appointment in the morning.”
“I can help search — ”
“We don’t need you,” Gibralter said. He turned away before Louis could answer. “Evans!” he called out.
The other officer looked up and trotted over.
> “Evans, take Kincaid home.”
“Wait a minute,” Louis said, moving into Gibralter’s line of vision. “I want — ”
“I don’t care what you want,” Gibralter said sharply. “In your mental state, you’re no use to us. Now go home.”
Louis walked stiffly to Evans’s cruiser and got in, unable to look at Evans as he started the engine. They pulled slowly away and were soon engulfed by the darkness and quiet.
Louis leaned his head back on the seat. A thought penetrated the fog in his head. “Did they find it?” he asked dully.
“Find what?” Evans said.
“The card.”
Evans hesitated. “Yeah.”
“Where was it?”
“On the floor of the cruiser.”
Louis closed his eyes. That’s why the motherfucker ran near the cruiser, to throw in the damn card.
“What was it? What card?” Louis asked.
“Eight of clubs.”
Eight? Just like Ollie’s call number.
Something inside him stirred. Fred Lovejoy’s number was ten. “Radio numbers,” Louis mumbled softly. “He’s using their damn call numbers.”
Evans glanced at him. “What?”
Except Pryce. Pryce’s number was two, not one as the ace of spades would indicate. Why hadn’t Pryce been tossed a two?
Evans brought the car to a sudden stop. Louis looked up, saw he was home and jumped out of the cruiser without a word. He went inside and walked to the kitchen. He uncapped the bottle of Christian Brothers and took a long swallow. It dribbled down his chin and he coughed, setting the bottle down. Bent over the sink, he wiped his chin with his hand.
You’re no use to us….
His hand was trembling. He brought it up to his face, turning it over slowly. He stared at his nails, rimmed with dried blood. He turned on the faucet, grabbed a Brillo pad and thrust his hands under the water, tearing the pad across his nails. Finally, he threw it aside and turned off the water.
There was a knock and his eyes shot to the door. His hand went to his holster. It was empty; he had turned over his gun at the scene as routine procedure.
“Louis?” a soft voice called. “Louis? It’s Zoe.”
He let out a breath, went slowly to the door and opened it. She stood there in the darkness of the porch, her head uncovered, her face shadowed. She waited and finally he moved aside and she came in.
The cabin was dark, the only light filtering in from the kitchen. She looked around, her eyes coming back finally to him. He saw them move down from his face to his chest. He had forgotten he was still wearing his police parka, the front stained brown with Ollie’s blood.
He turned away, going to the sofa. He switched on a lamp and slipped off the jacket, throwing it in a corner. He sat down, leaning forward, hands on his knees, closing his eyes. After a moment, he felt the sofa sag with her weight as she sat down next to him.
“I heard what happened,” she said.
Her voice was distant in his brain, childlike, fearful. He didn’t want to answer. He was afraid his own would sound the same.
“I had to come,” she said.
He shook his head slowly, not daring to look at her. He wanted to ask her why she had to come back but he didn’t want to hear what he knew was the truth, that she came back of pity.
“Go away, Zoe,” he said softly.
“Louis…”
“I need to be alone right now.”
She touched his back. “Don’t push me away. I understand — ”
“Please…please go. Now, please.” He started to pull away, but her hand moved up to his neck, pulling him closer.
“Don’t,” she said.
He tried to push away but her hand grew firmer. “Don’t,” she said.
He began to tremble and shut his eyes.
“Don’t” she whispered.
Something ripped inside his chest and he fell against her. Her arms encircled his back and she pulled him to her. He began to cry.
CHAPTER 28
Louis stepped out onto the porch, stretching his arms up over his head. He looked left, to where the setting sun had left a smudge of orange over the western trees. Dusk had always been his favorite time to run.
He hadn’t run in years, except for that one time with Zoe, and was probably risking a muscle pull but he didn’t care. He had to get out. Running had always helped him clear his head, helped him think straight, and God knew he needed help with that right now.
Stretching his calves, he thought about his appointment earlier that afternoon over in Grayling with the psychiatrist Vincent Serbo. He was a phlegmatic old fart, used to treating depressed housewives and wigged-out military types from the base. He told Louis that in his thirty years of practice he had never seen a police officer. He seemed fascinated by the smallest detail of cop life.
Not that Louis had volunteered much. He knew that seeing a shrink was standard procedure after a shooting, especially when it involved another cop. But he didn’t share his feelings with friends let alone strangers.
Besides, it was all crap anyway. Ollie’s death had been a hit to the gut but he would deal with it and get back to work.
He stepped off the porch, swinging his arms to get the blood moving, and started down toward the shoreline.
“Hey, Louis!”
Louis turned to see Jesse walking down the road toward the cabin. He was in uniform but there was no sign of his cruiser.
Jesse came up to him. “Where you headed?”
“Going for a run,” Louis said. He hadn’t spoken to Jesse since the shooting. They hadn’t talked about anything since Gibralter had split them up. As glad as he was to see Jesse, Louis had trouble meeting his eyes.
“Where’s your unit?” Louis asked.
“I was over at Dot’s after shift and decided to take a walk, do some thinking. Been doing a lot of that lately, thinking.”
Louis nodded. “How’d it go at work today?”
Jesse gave a sigh. “Everybody’s pretty upset. Chief sent Florence home because she wouldn’t stop crying.”
Louis nodded again and looked out to the lake. He wasn’t sure he wanted to talk about Ollie’s death, even with Jesse.
“Louis, can we go in side?” Jesse asked.
“Sure.”
They went back in the cabin. Jesse pulled off his parka and sat down on a chair, wringing his hands, trying to warm them. He seemed edgy, even more than he had after finding Lovejoy. There were only two cops left now from the raid — he and Gibralter.
“You want a drink?” Louis asked.
Jesse shook his head.
Louis picked up a half-finished can of Dr Pepper and took a drink, leaning against the counter to wait for Jesse to bring up whatever was obviously on his mind.
“So,” Jesse said, “how’d the thing with the shrink go?”
“It’s bullshit, a game,” Louis said with a shrug. “I’ll tell the guy what he wants to hear and get back to work.”
Jesse just looked at him.
“What?” Louis said.
“I don’t know, Louis,” Jesse said. “I think you should take this a little more seriously.”
“Jess, spare me your amateur analysis.”
“You shouldn’t just shrug this off. I mean, Ollie died right — ”
“Jess,” Louis said, cutting him off. “Enough. I’m all right.”
“You’re not all right. I heard the tape.”
Louis turned. “What tape?”
“The radio transmission. You sounded fucked up.”
Louis stared at him. “Gibralter played the tape for you?”
“He played it at briefing.” Jesse shifted on the chair. “He used it as a training thing, played it for all of us and said that with Lacey out there we had to keep cool heads and — ”
Louis threw the empty soda at the sink. “Son of a bitch!”
“Louis…”
“Son of a bitch!” He stalked across the room, turned and went ba
ck. He picked up the small lamp off the end table. “Motherfucker.”
Jesse jumped up. “Louis!”
Louis set the lamp down with a thud and went to the fireplace. He braced himself against the mantel, head down.
“Nobody thought anything about it,” Jesse said.
“Shut up, Jess,” Louis muttered. “Just shut up for a minute.” After a moment, he turned. “Why is he doing this to me?”
Jesse watched him intently. “Sit down,” he said.
Louis didn’t move. But something in Jesse’s eyes finally compelled him to sit down on the edge of the sofa.
“He knows,” Jesse said.
“Who?” Louis asked.
“The chief.”
“He knows what?” Louis said sharply.
“About you and Jeannie.”
“Jeannie? Who the fuck is Jennie?”
Jesse looked at him oddly. “His wife.”
Louis shook his head. “Wife?”
“He knows…” Jesse hesitated, his face pained. “He knows you two are having an affair.”
Louis stared at Jesse in shock. “He thinks I’m fucking his wife?”
Now Jesse looked stunned. “Aren’t you?”
“No!” Louis said quickly. “I’ve never even met his wife!”
“Wait, wait,” Jesse said, shaking his head. “Who are you fucking?”
“That’s none of your business,” Louis snapped. He paused, trying to calm down. “Zoe, her name is Zoe Devereaux.”
Jesse was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know any Zoe and I know everyone here.”
“She’s not from here, she’s from Chicago. She rents a cabin up on the north shore. She’s an artist.”
Jesse’s expression clouded. “Artist? What does she look like?”
“She’s…she’s small, half-Asian and…”
Jesse waited for him to finish and when he did not, he continued for him. “Dark hair, light-colored skin, like you?” he said.
Louis stared at him.
“She likes French stuff,” Jesse added. “She paints, pictures of snow and trees.”
Louis stared at him, then walked off toward the kitchen. Jesse shook his head slowly, watching Louis’s back. He stood up. “I guess I’d better let you — ”