“You broke in.”
“Yeah. Anyway. They’d set a trap-gun. A shotgun wired to the door. But I was wearing a Kevlar vest. I just got some bruised ribs.”
“This is why it’s so much fun treating you for post-traumatic stress disorder, Keller. Most of my patients try to avoid life-threatening situations.” He sighed. “Okay. Well, the first thing I can tell you is don’t be watching the news anymore right now. They’re showing those damn pictures every ten minutes. Second, come see me tomorrow. At the center.”
“I’m feeling better,” Keller said. “Besides, I’m still after this jumper. I’ve got some work to do.”
Berry sighed. “Then there’s no use trying to talk you out of it. I know that much. Well, you’ve got my number.”
There was a flash of headlights through the window. Someone was pulling up in the yard outside.
“Somebody’s here,” Keller said.
“Probably Angela,” Berry said. “Marie said she was calling her, too.”
“Damn it…”
“People care about you, Keller,” Berry said. “You might as well get used to that. It has certain advantages.”
“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”
He got up to answer the door.
“I’m writing you a prescription, Keller. You don’t have to take it, but I’m recommending it.”
“I don’t—”
“I know, I know. You don’t like meds. But if you change your mind, call. I can phone it in. It’s there if you want it.”
“Yeah, okay,” Keller said. “Thanks, Lucas.”
He opened the door as Berry broke the connection. Angela was standing on the front steps, a plastic bag in her hand. Oscar Sanchez was behind her, leaning on his cane. There was a paper bag in his free hand.
“I figured you wouldn’t be getting any sleep,” Angela said, holding up the plastic bag. “So I brought videos. No war movies, though.”
“And I brought beer. And the makings for empenadas,” Sanchez said. “If you are hungry.”
Keller leaned in the doorway. “You guys don’t have to do this,” he said.
“I know we don’t,” Angela said. “Now invite us in.”
They sat together in the living room, eating, drinking, and watching movies, Angela or Keller occasionally piping up to explain some Americanism to Sanchez or crack a joke about some particularly absurd plot point. Gradually, as the night wore on into the early morning, the intense jittery feeling that Keller often had after a flashback subsided. He stopped seeing the images behind his eyelids whenever he closed his eyes. He noticed that Oscar was yawning and stretching. “Oscar,” Keller said. “Why don’t you crash in the spare bedroom?”
“I am all right,” Sanchez insisted. “I want to help.”
“You have, buddy,” Keller said. “The food was great.”
“Go on, Oscar,” Angela said. “Grab a couple hours. Somebody has to be awake when we open tomorrow.”
When he looked doubtful, she said, “I’ll be in to join you in a little bit.”
He smiled at that. “Okay,” he said. “Good night, Jack.”
“G’night, Oscar,” Keller said. “And thanks again.”
As the door closed behind Sanchez, Keller looked over at Angela and cocked an eyebrow.
“Don’t start, Keller,” she warned.
“What?” he said innocently. “I’m glad you two are, um… ”
She sighed. “We’re not, actually. I mean, we’re sleeping together, but we’re not, you know, sleeping together.”
“Wow,” Keller said. “I knew he was a good guy, but…”
“He’s so sweet,” Angela said. “And I’m so… I don’t know.” She took a pull on her beer. “I haven’t been with a man since …since my husband.” She gave a short, harsh laugh. “I’m not sure I remember how.”
“I think it’ll come back to you.”
“You’re a funny man, you are,” she said. “Plus, there’s…” She trailed off.
“The scars.”
She nodded. “He says he doesn’t mind. He’s…well, he’s seen some of them. And God knows, I’m used to them. But I don’t know if a man can ever look at me…that way again. I’m afraid.”
“Afraid he’ll be…” He let the words trail off.
She nodded again. Neither of them said anything for a long time. Finally Keller said, “I guess you’ll never know ‘til you try.” He took a drink. “I’ve been there, too. I was afraid no one was ever going to care about me because I was so fucked up inside. Sometimes I’m still afraid. But there were people who took their chances on me. You. Then Marie. They took their chances with you, you need to take yours. If that makes any sense.”
She smiled. “A little.”
He smiled back. “I’m starting to ramble.”
She laughed then. “A little. Maybe you’re tired enough to sleep.”
He stood up. “Maybe. But first I need to make a phone call.”
She stood up as well. “Okay,” she said. “Sleep well.”
“You too.” He went into his room and locked the door. He pulled out his cell phone and hit the speed dial. Marie answered after two rings.
“How’s it going?” he said.
“Total cluster-fuck,” she said. “There’s been another multiple shooting. A diner up on 1-95. They’ve called every officer in. But nobody seems to have thought much beyond that.”
“I thought after 9/11 everyone had a plan for stuff like this.”
“They do. It’s in a big binder and everything. But the binder’s locked in a cabinet, and no one can find the guy who has the key.” Her voice softened. “How are you?”
“Better,” he said.
“I thought you were fine before,” she said. There was an edge to her voice.
“Thanks for knowing better than that,” he said. “And thanks for calling Lucas. And Angela. She and Oscar are here.” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I shut you out.”
“Just quit doing it, okay?” she said.
“Okay,” he said. “Be careful.”
“I will. Love you.”
“I love you, too,” he said and broke the connection. He took off his boots and lay on the bed staring up at the ceiling. After a while he drifted off to sleep.
CHAPTER NINE
The sun was rising when they got back to the trailer. “Something’s wrong,” Roy said as they pulled up.
“What?” Stan said. He was feeling sick and shaky again. He wanted some more of the meth. It took the place of the adrenaline rush. He thought he could still taste the blood in his mouth, but maybe it was his imagination.
Laurel poked her head up front. “Shit,” she said. “The door’s open.” She pulled the .45 out and racked the slide before reaching back and handing one of the rifles to Roy.
“Stay here, Stan,” Roy said as Stan took the other rifle from Laurel’s hands. “Cover us,” Stan opened the van door and trained the rifle on the half-opened trailer door as Roy and Laurel got out of the van. They approached the trailer slowly, warily. Roy gently nudged the door the rest of the way open with the barrel of the M-14. Stan could see the remains of the silver wire dangling from the doorknob. Roy went inside. Laurel followed.
Stan didn’t know what to do. It seemed as if there was no one there. But Roy had ordered him to stay. Had they forgotten him? Stan fidgeted for a moment. Fuck it, he finally thought. He got out and went inside.
The faint sharp stench of gunpowder greeted Stan as he walked in. He saw the shotgun still strapped to the chair, but the chair was lying on its side. There was no one in the living room. There were holes in the wall that hadn’t been there before. Bullet holes, Stan realized. “Roy?” he called out softly. “Laurel?” he raised the rifle and walked down the hall into Roy’s bedroom.
Roy was kneeling on the floor, crouched over in almost a fetal position. He had his face hidden in his hands. The knuckles were white with strain. Laurel knelt beside him, her arm around him. There was a panicked exp
ression on her face. “What’s wrong?” Stan asked frantically.
“He has these spells, sometimes,” Laurel said. “Headaches, like, but worse than a regular one. It happens more often when he gets real stressed.”
“Oh, great,” Stan said. “And we were letting him drive?”
“Hey,” Laurel said. “Show some fuckin’ compassion. The man’s in pain here.”
Roy looked up. His face was gaunt and lined with pain. He suddenly looked a hundred years old to Stan. “I’ll be okay,” he croaked in a ghastly voice. “It’ll pass in a few minutes.” He staggered to his feet. “Somebody triggered the gun,” Stan said. “And there’s bullet holes in the wall. But there’s no blood.”
“No shit,” Roy said. He lurched into the bathroom. Stan heard him turn the water on.
“But there’s no sign of the cops, either,” Laurel said. “So maybe it was just some burglars. They didn’t want anybody to know they were here, so they took whoever got shot with them.”
“Maybe,” Roy said as he came out of the bathroom. He was wiping his face with a towel. “But there’s still no blood. No sign anybody got shot.” He pulled a suitcase out of the closet. “Go pack up. We’re gettin’ out of here.”
“Where are we supposed to go?” Stan said.
“Come on, Stan,” Laurel said, taking his arm. “We got a backup place. We weren’t supposed to be goin’ there just yet. But I don’t like this, either. There’s somethin’ weird goin’ on here.”
Marie grabbed a chair in the third row of the briefing room. Finally, she thought, we’re getting sorted out. The sheriff himself had arrived shortly after her phone call to Keller. Asses had been chewed. Supervisors had been informed that their jobs were on the line. Before long, order had been restored to the sheriff’s department. The buzz of conversation died as Major Simmonds, the chief deputy, stepped to the podium.
“At approximately 1930 hours last night,” he began, “a church in Duplin County was attacked by two armed subjects, a white male and a white female. There were multiple casualties, with fourteen people confirmed killed.” The low rumble of conversation began again. “Listen up, people,” Simmonds snapped. The rumble quieted. “At approximately 2145 hours, a late-night diner off of Interstate 95 was also attacked by two subjects, again a white male and white female, who appeared to be using the same type of weapons, namely military-style assault rifles. It is believed that there may have been a third subject, race and gender unknown, who was acting as driver in the second incident. The subjects left the scene in what survivors described as a white van, make and year unknown. Due to the similarities in weapons used and the general description of the subjects, the incidents may, I repeat may, be linked. The State Bureau of Investigation is working on the ballistics at this time.” He shuffled some papers on the podium. “At this time, authorities do not believe that this is an act of foreign terrorism. However, an FBI team is on its way to both scenes to investigate.” After Simmonds’s earlier rebuke, no one dared speak, but the looks on their faces as they glanced at each other were eloquent. Simmonds looked up. “The subjects are still at large. We do not know if they plan to act again. Therefore, you are to use extreme vigilance. Also, I want you people highly visible. You will be kept apprised of developments as they occur.” He picked up the sheaf of papers and made as if to exit the podium.
Hands shot up all over the room. Simmonds looked annoyed. A former pro football player, he had been handpicked for the chief deputy position, heir apparent to the sheriff himself, largely because of his presentability on television and at political fund-raisers, where he could deliver a pre-scripted speech with the best of them. Thinking on his feet, however, was not his strong point. “I didn’t ask for questions,” he said ominously.
“What weapon?” some bold soul called out.
“What?” Simmonds said. His face was beginning to redden.
“Are we facing down people with machine guns out there?” someone else piped up.
“Does it make a difference in how you do your jobs?” Simmonds demanded.
“You’re damn right it does,” a deep voice said. There was a ripple of nervous laughter.
Simmonds looked close to apoplexy. “You’ll be kept informed of developments as they occur.” He walked out.
“Well, that’d be a first,” a stocky deputy in the row ahead of Marie muttered. A lanky blonde deputy with a hint of moustache on his upper lip spoke up. “I heard they was using weapons stole from Fort Bragg,” he offered.
Marie turned to look at him. “Where’d you hear that?”
“I got a cousin works there. They got the whole place locked down and CID guys are crawlin’ all over everbody.” He was interrupted when another deputy took the podium. In a tense voice, he began reading off assignments. When he was done, he looked up. “Be careful out there, folks,” he said. It was a standard end to a briefing, but this time it was delivered with more than the usual sincerity.
The murmur of conversation was muted as they got up to leave. Marie noticed Shelby leaning against the back wall talking to another detective. She walked over. “Hey,” she said.
“Hey,” he replied. He looked slightly embarrassed. The other detective said his good-byes and walked off.
“Don’t feel bad, Shelby,” she said. “I know you tried.”
He seemed to relax slightly. “Yeah, I did. Sorry it din’t work out.”
She shrugged. “Guess they’re going to really be paying some overtime now.”
He laughed. “I guess.”
She dropped her voice slightly. “So what’s this I hear about these people using military weapons?”
He looked around. “Nothin’ confirmed, now,” he said, “but it does look like some of the guns they was usin’ might’ve come from Fort Bragg.”
“Tell me they don’t have machine guns, Shelby. I’ve been shot at with those, and it’s not a hell… sorry, it’s not a lot of fun.”
He shook his head. “Naw. No full-auto stuff. An’ like I said, these were older— Vietnam-era. Some M-14s and at least one .45-caliber pistol. One of them used the .45 to kill one of the victims in the church, execution style.”
“Wait a minute,” Marie said. “Wasn’t that guy that was shot in the service station killed with a .45?”
He furrowed his brow. “Yeah, but there’s a lot of .45s out there.”
“Just a thought,” she said. “I mean, we’re right next to Bragg. Maybe somebody picked themselves up a new toy and wanted to try it out.”
He nodded. “I’ll have a look. SBI’s got all the bullets on the church and diner shootings. But I’ll fax ‘em the photos we got on the bullet from the gas station shooting. Couldn’t hurt.”
“Yeah,” Marie said. “Well, I’ve got to get on the road.”
He nodded. “Be careful,” he said seriously. “I’ll keep you in my prayers.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll take whatever edge I can get.”
CHAPTER TEN
Keller awoke to the sound of clattering dishes in the kitchen and the smell of fresh-brewed coffee. He sat up and stretched, then winced at the pain in his ribs. He took off his shirt and looked at himself in the mirror. His chest was still badly bruised, an archipelago of angry purple marks. He became aware of another sound from the kitchen. He had trouble making it out at first. Then he smiled as he realized what it was. Someone was whistling.
He went out to the kitchen. Sanchez was putting away dishes. “You didn’t have to do that, Oscar,” Keller said.
Sanchez smiled, the first genuine smile Keller had seen from him in quite a while. “It is no trouble. I was up anyway. There is coffee if you want.”
Keller poured himself a cup. “Sleep okay?”
“Si, quite good,” Sanchez said. Keller smiled as he took a sip of the coffee. The smile left his face as he tasted it. Sanchez looked dismayed at the look on Keller’s face. “It is not good.”
“It’s fine,” Keller choked out. “It’s just a little, ah,
stronger than I expected.”
Sanchez grinned mischievously. It made him look years younger. “You will get used to it,” he said. “It will put the hair on your chest.”
“And strip the enamel off my teeth,” Keller muttered.
“I see you’ve discovered Oscar’s coffee,” Angela said as she walked in. She went over to Sanchez and hugged him. “Good morning,” she murmured.
Sanchez looked hesitantly at Keller, then hugged her back. “Good morning,” he said.
She kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Jeez, get a room,” Keller teased.
Angela picked up a dish towel and threw it at him. “Shut up, Jack,” she said, but she was smiling, too.
Sanchez looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Now look what you’ve done,” Angela said. “You’ve made Oscar blush.” She kissed him again, then gave a final squeeze and stepped away. “I can make breakfast, if you’ve got anything to fix,” she said. She opened the fridge. “Hmm. Guess not.”
“Sorry,” Keller said, “but this coffee’ll probably keep me going through dinner.” He took another sip. “Actually, it kind of grows on you.”
“Stick to one cup,” Angela warned. “Two, and you get so wired you start gnawing down trees like a beaver.”
“If you do not like the coffee—,” Sanchez began, but was cut off by their laughter. Finally, he smiled. “You Americans are just not used to coffee the way it should be made. You are…what is the word…wimpy?” They laughed again at that.
“Okay, tough guy,” Angela said. “We need to get to work.”
“Me, too,” said Keller.
“I don’t suppose it’d do any good trying to talk you out of going after Laurel Marks again,” Angela said. “That boyfriend of hers, the one who set that trap gun, is shaping up to be a class-A nutball. Who the hell sets up something like that?”
“I’ll ask him when I find him, if they’re still together,” Keller said.
Angela sighed. “Okay,” she said. “So what’s your plan?”
“You said she had parents in the area. Maybe I’ll try and talk to them.”
“From the way she talked, they’re not exactly on good terms.”
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