Double Blind

by D P Lyle

  “I’m armed,” Lloyd said.

  He peered into the shadows, looking for any movement but saw nothing. In the darkness, the thief’s raspy breathing seemed to come from every direction.

  He needed more light. The overhead light switch was near the front door. Too far away and too near where the thief was now hidden. But, to his left along the wall a brass lamp sat on the desk where he kept books, ordered supplies, and chatted with friends and customers.

  He sidestepped toward it, keeping his eyes and the gun trained on where he had last seen the intruder. His fingers found and yanked the pull chain. The cavernous darkness easily consumed the weak glow from the 60-watt bulb. Some shadows dissolved, others intensified.

  “Look, I don’t want to hurt you,” Lloyd said. “Come out where I can see you.”

  Nothing. Only the sound of his own sibilant breathing and the whooshing of his heart beat in his ears.

  “Billy? If that’s you, come on out. I don’t want to call Wade and get you in trouble again.”

  Holding the gun before him, Lloyd crept toward the table that concealed the intruder. Skirting it, he expected to see him huddled in the shadows, but no one was there. Lloyd spun around looking in every direction. Where did he go?

  Then, he heard movement and turned. Slipping through the shadows, weaving around the tables and racks of merchandise, a form moved toward the side door.

  He’s going to get away, Lloyd thought. He rushed back toward the door to block any escape, but the quick movements of the intruder easily won the race. But rather than escape through the door, the thief stopped, rose up so that the lamp backlit him, making him appear even more massive. Only a dozen feet separated them. The intruder’s coarse breathing was almost a grunt. The musty odor, now stronger, seemed sour, sweaty, feral.

  Lloyd realized this wasn’t going as he had planned. The thief did not appear intimidated by the gun. Sweat trickled down Lloyd’s forehead, into his eyes. He swiped his shirtsleeve across his face and raised the weapon. He squinted, attempting to make out the thief’s face. He had thick hair that hung to his shoulders and a dark unruly beard, but he could make out few details.

  “Billy? Is that you?”

  No response.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Lloyd took a step back. “Take anything you want.” Panic cracked his voice.

  With a sweat-soaked, shaking hand, Lloyd pointed the gun toward the thief and squeezed the trigger. The sound was deafening, the recoil surprising.

  The intruder came at him with quick predatory strides.

  He fired again, but the swipe of a huge hand deflected the gun away. The weapon fell from Lloyd’s grasp and banged against the hard wood floor.

  The intruder towered over him, extending a folding shovel above his head.

  Lloyd looked up into two dark eyes. A scream swelled in his throat as he raised his arms for protection. Too late. Pain and a flash of light erupted in his head. Reeling, he reached out toward his attacker, searching for any support, closing his fist around the intruder’s wiry beard. Consciousness escaped him as he slumped to the floor.

  Chapter 6

  As Sam drove along Main Street, several antique shops, a 1950’s style gas station, and a pharmacy that appeared to have a soda counter caught her eye. Near the center of town, she saw Mama Rose’s Bistro, a faded redwood structure with French doors and windows, framed by floral curtains. Next door loomed a two-story wooden building. Lettering on its expansive front windows indicated it was Varney’s General Merchandise.

  Varney’s was the only store that exhibited an interior light. Sam guessed security wasn’t a big problem in a town of 821. But as she passed, she caught a movement from the corner of her eye, a shadow that danced across the front windows.

  Without thinking, her foot shifted to the brake. She slowed and glanced back at the store.

  A quick flash illuminated the windows, followed by a soft pop. Then, a second flash-pop. She jerked to a complete stop in the middle of the street.

  Gunshots?

  Now a half a block up the street, she pulled to her right, tires scrapping the curb. Her cop’s mind automatically kicked into gear.

  Gunshots? Here in this sleepy little town? Mercer’s Corner wasn’t much bigger than Gold Creek and gunfire never occurred there. Well, almost never. Maybe she didn’t really see anything. It happened so suddenly. Maybe it was nothing more than optical illusion, a reflection of the light off the windows, and her brain, fatigued by 12 hours behind the wheel, had conjured the rest. However, the muffled popping sounds weren’t so easily dismissed.

  The idea that she was on vacation twisted around in her mind, but couldn’t prevent her from stepping from her Jeep. The cold air stabbed at her. She snagged her leather jacket from the front seat and slipped it on.

  Now what?

  The committee in her mind gaveled itself into session. Most of the voices agreed: Go on to Alyss’. Go to bed. This isn’t your problem. This isn’t your jurisdiction.

  However, one faint voice chimed in: But, what if?

  She glanced back at the store. The interior was now dark. So much for an optical illusion.

  Ahead, at the end of the block, a rectangular white sign with black lettering marked the Gold Creek Police Department. Smaller lettering indicated the Chief of Police was someone named Forrest Wade. The two-story white frame building beyond was dark.

  Sam stood in the street, listening to the faint ticking of the cooling engine, and weighed her options. She could walk back and check things out. Or, wake up Chief Wade and let him handle it. But, where was he? Not in his darkened office. She looked up and down the street. Not a soul. Not even a stray dog. How would she reach Chief Wade and how long would it take? If she had indeed seen and heard gunfire, time wasn’t a luxury at her disposal.

  With her mental committee still squabbling, she reached into her Jeep, popped open the glove box, and removed her .357 Smith and Wesson, a small flashlight, and her badge wallet.

  Might as well get this over with.

  She stuffed the badge in one pocket, flashlight in the other, and clipped the gun on her belt at the small of her back. The coldness of the mountain air bored into her and she tugged up the zipper of her leather jacket. She flexed and relaxed her fists several times, the aching joints protesting the movements.

  Sam eased along the sidewalk, staying close to the buildings. When she reached Varney’s, she carefully peered through the lower corner of the front window into the cavernous darkness. The faint light that filtered in from the street revealed that everything appeared in order. The cash register sat undisturbed on a counter near the front. The merchandise she could see from her vantage point was neatly stacked, nothing out of place. She searched for a shadow among the shadows, but saw nothing.

  Then, along the right wall, a change in the darkness, a faint wedge of gray disrupting the blackness. An open door?

  She pulled the .357 from its holster. The weapon seemed heavier than usual as she wrapped her swollen fingers around it. She sneaked down the narrow alley between Varney’s and the Gold Creek Bank until she reached the door, which indeed stood partially open. She listened, but heard nothing except the sound of her own breathing and the thumping of her heart in her throat.

  She started to rap her fist on the doorframe, announce herself as a police officer, but froze when she detected an odor, drifting through the door. A stale, musty odor. Animalistic, but laced with something else. Her brain quickly sorted through its files, made the connection.

  Cordite. No illusion. Someone had fired a gun.

  Her heart up shifted. Taking a deep breath, she reached to push open the door with her left hand.

  Suddenly the door swung away and a huge man, shoulder lowered, slammed into her. She flew backwards. Her gun escaped her grip as she collided with the wall of the bank next door. Her head ricocheted off the stucco, cracking her teeth together. Flashes of light exploded within her brain.

  Stunned, she rolled on to her
side and looked toward the fleeing man. She judged he was easily 6-3, well over 250 pounds, with thick rounded shoulders. And he could move. Fast. Faster than his bulk would suggest.

  He never broke stride as he darted down the alleyway and turned to his right, behind the bank.

  She struggled to her feet, fighting to ignore the wave of dizziness that swept over her. She scooped up her gun and took off after him.

  She entered the alley that ran behind the buildings, the .357 leading the way. Her senses went to full alert, eyes probing every shadow, ears seeking the sound of footsteps, nose capturing only the faintest remnant of the musty odor.

  “Who’s there?” she shouted.

  No answer.

  “I’m a cop. Come on out.”

  Silence.

  She searched the alley, the narrow passageways between the shops, and behind a cluster of trash cans. Nothing. No one. It was as if he had evaporated into the cold night air.

  She returned to the open door. Gun in one hand and flashlight in the other, she stepped inside, turning one way and then the other, the light beam directed down her line of sight.

  “Anybody in here?” she shouted. No answer. She panned the light around the room, its narrow beam stabbing into the darkness. Nothing appeared out of place.

  The odor of cordite commingled with the remnants of the intruder’s musty smell, both now laced with another aroma. What was it? She knew it, had smelled it before, but couldn’t identify it.

  She swiped the wall beside the door, searching for a light switch, finding none. A desk with brass lamp sat to her left. She yanked the pull chain; the light pushed back some of the shadows.

  The room was wide and deep, with soaring ceilings. Racks and tables of clothing and supplies filled most of the floor and wall space. Everything appeared in order, quiet, until she looked down. Several bloody shoe prints on the hardwood floor led from behind a rack of flannel shirts, past where she stood, and out the door.

  Despite the cold, sweat trickled down her neck, between her breasts, and slicked the palms of her hands. Her gun pointed the way as she circled the rack of shirts, stepping carefully around the shoe prints to avoid damaging the evidence. The blood added a healthy dose of caution and fear to her every movement.

  The thought that she had no business being there crossed her mind.

  She rounded the display rack and froze. A body lay on the floor. A man, on his back, unmoving, wearing a red and yellow checked flannel shirt and beige down vest. A pool of black cherry blood fanned out from his left ear, which like the entire left side of his face, was crushed and discolored. Two eyes as black as pools of oil stared up at her. She directed the light beam at them. No pupillary reaction.

  Chapter 7

  The jangle of the phone ripped through the dark studio apartment Police Chief Forest Wade called home. Cramped and drafty, it wasn’t much, but it conveniently occupied the upper floor of the Gold Creek Police Department and came free with the job.

  He faintly heard the first two rings, muffled by the pillow that lay over his head. Two hours earlier, he had downed three bourbons, one more than his usual, while watching the ten o’clock news, and had fallen into a deep sleep.

  The third ring pulled him from beneath the pillow. He swung his legs off the narrow mattress that served as a sofa by day and a bed at night. The TV on the empty nail barrel across the room spit static at him. He reached for the phone, interrupting the fourth ring in mid stride, but fumbled the receiver. It hit the linoleum floor with a bang.

  “Goddamn it,” he growled.

  He grabbed the cord and swung the receiver up, catching it with his other hand. The clock on the two-burner stove in the corner blinked 12:25 a.m. One of the better parts of his job was that no one ever called at this hour and he couldn’t imagine who this might be.

  “This is Wade,” he said as he brought the phone to his ear.

  “Chief Wade. It’s Louise Varney.”

  “Louise? What’s the matter?”

  “It’s Lloyd. I’m worried about him.”

  Wade forked his fingers through his thinning hair and then snatched the remote from the bedside table and punched the TV into silence. “Yeah? What is it?”

  “You know those break-ins we’ve had. Well, he left about ten to go watch the store and try to catch whoever’s been doing it. I told him not to, but...well...you know how pig-headed he can be.”

  “So, why’re you worried?”

  “He was supposed to call me at midnight, but he didn’t. I dozed off and just woke up. I’m afraid the old fool fell asleep. And as cold out as it is, he might catch pneumonia or something.”

  Wade sighed heavily. “Well, I’m awake now. I’ll take a stroll down there and shoo him on home.”

  “Thanks, Chief. I’d feel better if you did.”

  He hung up the phone and stepped into his pants, which lay on the floor beside the bed. After slipping on his shirt and boots, he splashed water on his face at the kitchen sink. The aroma of dried tomato soup, last night’s dinner, wafted up from the dirty bowl he had neglected to wash.

  He strapped on his gun belt, snagged his jacket from the back of the chair where it always hung, and headed out the door.

  The old wooden stairs, which ran down the side of the building, creaked in protest as he descended them. The acrid aroma of smoldering wood from the fireplaces of nearby homes, a smell he never tired of, hung in the crisp night air. Stepping off the last step, he took a deep breath to clear his fuzzy brain and headed across the department’s front lawn and down the street toward Varney’s. A half block later, he came to a white Jeep with a roof mounted light bar and black and gold door decals that read: “Mercer’s Corner Sheriff’s Department.” Curious.

  Looking across the street toward Varney’s, he saw an interior light shinning through the front windows. “Lloyd never leaves lights on,” he muttered to himself.

  Then, he saw the nose of Lloyd’s pick-up, parked at the corner of Fourth Avenue and Main, and walked toward it. Lloyd wasn’t there, but a cup of coffee sat on the dashboard. A half empty box of .38 shells and a nearly empty pint of Jack Daniel's lay on the passenger’s seat. He exhaled loudly and shook his head.

  As he crossed Main Street and approached Varney’s, the light that spilled through the front windows flickered, shadows dancing on the glass. Someone was inside. Probably Lloyd.

  He peered through the window, didn’t see anyone, but noticed the side door stood open. He headed around the building.

  *

  After Sam searched the dark nooks and crannies of the store and found no one, she returned to the body. Squatting, she reached out and touched the man’s wrist, checking for the pulse she knew wouldn’t be present. His dilated black pupils had already told her the story. His skin was warm. Several long strands of dark hair lay in his open palm.

  “Now will you call the damn police, Samantha?” she said aloud.

  She started to rise, but heard something and dropped back to one knee, senses on edge. A scrapping sound, footsteps, just outside the open door. The killer? Had he returned to eliminate the witness?

  A shadow moved across her and she heard the distinct sound of shoes against the hardwood floor. Whoever it was, was inside now.

  Gripping her Smith and Wesson, ignoring the pain in her battered knuckles, she popped up to a standing position and leveled the .357 at the backlit shadow before her.

  “Freeze!” she shouted. “Police.”

  The intruder stopped. He was much shorter than the man who had run over her. And possessed narrower shoulders and a broader midsection. Accomplice? Even in the dim light, she could see the look of surprise on his face. She could also see the gun that appeared in his right hand.

  “Drop the piece,” Sam commanded. “Now!”

  “What the hell...”

  “I said now. Drop it.”

  “I’m the Chief of Police, Goddamn it,” he said.

  Confusion swept through her. “Police? What’s your name
?”

  “Wade.”

  That fit. That was the name on the sign in front of the police department. She noticed he not only hadn’t dropped the gun, but also had pointed it in her direction.

  He took a step toward her. “Now, why don’t you put that thing down and tell me who the hell you are and what you’re doing here,” he said.

  “Show me a badge,” Sam said.

  “Don’t have it on me. Never wear it. Everybody knows who I am.”

  That made sense, too. In a town this size, everyone would know the police chief.

  “I’ll ask again,” he continued. “Who are you?”

  “Sam Cody. Sheriff’s Deputy from California.”

  “That your rig up the street?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Long way from home aren’t you?”

  Sam felt increasingly uncomfortable pointing a gun at who was apparently the Chief of Police and even more uncomfortable staring down the barrel of his gun. “OK,” she said. “I’ve got my badge in my pocket.”

  “Let’s see it.”

  She pulled out her badge wallet, flipped it open, and held it out toward him. He glanced at it and then lowered his gun. Sam stuffed her .357 back into its holster.

  “OK, Deputy Cody, what’s going on here?”

  “There’s a dead man here,” she said.

  “What?” He leveled the gun toward her again. “Keep your hands where I can see them and step back.”

  She guessed Wade was pushing 60, with thin, graying hair and fleshy jowls. Wrinkles ravaged his denim shirt and the lamp reflected off a large oval silver belt buckle, which held in a gut that suggested most of his meals came with fries on the side.

  He stepped around the rack of flannel shirts that separated them and looked down. “Jesus Christ.” He knelt down by the body. “It’s Lloyd.” He cocked his head up toward her, eyes narrowing. “Want to tell me what you have to do with this?”

  “Nothing. I found him just before you got here.”

  “How’d you get in here?”

  “The door was open.” She told him of driving by, seeing and hearing gunshots, stopping to investigate, and getting run over by the apparent murderer.