The Shadow's Edge

by Patrick Dakin

  We went back to the Wilsons to get Bix and gathered up what items of furniture Callie had accumulated over the past seven years and loaded up the pickup. Beyond some bedroom furniture, her clothes, and her personal items there wasn’t a whole lot. Two trips is all it would take to transfer all our worldly goods.

  Before leaving I took Miles aside. I had decided to take the direct approach. “You happen to have a weapon of some description I could borrow? I don’t like the idea of living out in the country without some form of protection.”

  “Oh, sure,” he replied.

  I gave him a sheepish look. “With my record I can’t get one of my own, Miles, but I’d prefer a pistol; ideally one without a registration attached to it.”

  He nodded knowingly. “Follow me.”

  He took me down to his basement and into a locked room that contained an impressive array of weaponry. “I picked up most of these over the years at gun shows and private sales,” he said.

  I sighted in on a 9mm Glock, that looked like a newer version but similar to the one I had carried as an FBI agent. “What’s the story on this one?” I asked, pointing.

  He handed me the pistol. “This one ain’t legal, Jack. It’s a Glock 18, fully automatic.” He pointed at a lever. “Goes from semi to full auto by pressing down on this.”

  “It’s not registered?”

  “That’s right. Bought it from a guy I know in Minnesota. Ex-cop. I think it came into his possession durin’ a drug bust.”

  “You mind if I take it?”

  He looked a little uncertain. “You really think ya want somethin’ that destructive just for protection?”

  “I’m more impressed by the fact that it’s not registered, Miles. If I ever had to use it, at least it’s not going to get traced back to you.”

  “Okay.” He handed me two clips and a box of cartridges. “That oughta hold ya,” he said.

  “Thanks, Miles. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

  He shrugged off my display of gratitude. “Don’t give it a thought.”

  We spent the day fixing the place up as best we could with what little we had. It was a wonderful day in many ways and, if I concentrated hard enough, I could almost fool myself into thinking things had really gone back to the way they once had been.

  There was no way, however, I could lose sight of the coming storm. Kat’s welfare was paramount in my thoughts and the threat hanging over her sat heavy on my mind.

  Jerry Reed – that country crooner from the seventies – had once sung: “We’ve got a long way to go, and a short time to get there.” I could identify with the sentiment. In my case, though, it was a little different: I had a tough job to do, and not much time to do it.

  32

  While ostensibly on a trip to town to get supplies I stopped in to the diner to find that, although Kat had been expected to show up for work that morning, no one had seen or heard from her. I was struck by a sudden feeling of vertigo, like I had just jumped out of an airplane. I left the diner and drove to Kat’s home, a tiny bungalow a five minute drive away. I hammered on her door and called out her name. When I got no response I went around to the back and used my elbow to break a small window beside the patio door. A few seconds later I was tearing through the house, hoping against hope that I would find her suffering with nothing more serious than a head cold. But there was no sign of her at all. I tried to console myself with the fact that there were no apparent indications of a struggle.

  I went out to the little garage at the rear of the property. My rising spirits of a moment earlier were dashed when I saw the Chevette parked inside. Kat hadn’t shown up for work, she was no where to be found, and yet her car was at home. Not good signs.

  I went back to the house, this time determined to find some clue as to what might have transpired. In the bedroom closet I found a clutch purse with the keys to the Chevette in it, a few personal items, but no wallet. A detailed search of the entire house turned up no wallet and this struck me as odd. Women don’t normally carry a wallet in their pants pocket and she certainly wouldn’t have taken the time to grab it if she was being abducted. So where was it? Also there were a few breakfast dishes in the sink and the coffee maker had been used. If she had been grabbed it would have to have been just as she was getting ready to leave the house for work. A visit to Fordham’s place of employment seemed appropriate.

  As I pulled to a stop down the street from the Colville Police Department I saw Fordham leaving the building. He got into his department vehicle and drove off without noticing me. I waited until he was almost out of sight before pulling out and tailing him. Before long it became apparent I wasn’t going to be able to follow him unobserved. He had left town, traffic was non-existent, and he would have to be blind not to notice my pickup in his rearview mirror. I figured I had nothing to lose by staying with him; if for no other reason, just to see how he would react to my presence.

  He wound his way out into the countryside. If he had a destination in mind it wasn’t obvious. About twenty miles from town, with no sign of civilization it sight, he pulled his cruiser to the side of the road and came to a stop. He got out of the vehicle and stood facing in my direction, waiting for me to come to him. Knowing what I did about him I was not comfortable with this scenario. In addition to the pistol he carried on his hip I knew his cruiser contained a locked and loaded shotgun within easy reach of where he stood.

  I brought the pickup to a stop. We were about a hundred and fifty yards apart - far enough to be out of conversation range but not so far that we couldn’t have yelled at each other. For several long moments neither of us moved.

  Then he started ambling toward me.

  I reached behind my back and brought the Glock out. I held it in my right hand, between my knees. At least I knew Fordham wasn’t armed with any more firepower than I was and I had the advantage of a vehicle for cover. If I let him get much closer, however, I would be giving up that advantage.

  I got out of the pickup, and stood behind the door. I kept the Glock low and out of sight. “That’s close enough,” I said.

  He stopped, at the same time casually placing his hand on his holstered gun. He was smiling ever so slightly. “Police officers are not normally in the habit of being told what to do by ex cons,” he said conversationally. There was no threat in his voice; quite the contrary he seemed almost jovial in demeanor.

  “I’m looking for Kat Stedman,” I said. “Thought maybe you could help me out.”

  “Kat? Nope, afraid not. Haven’t seen the lady recently.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Listen, uh … Mr. Parmenter, you mind stepping away from your vehicle?”

  “Not a chance,” I said.

  Suddenly the facade of friendliness was gone. The mask fell away, revealing evil if I had ever seen it.

  His rage was building, his breath coming in shallow drafts. When he reached for his weapon I brought the Glock up, resting my arms on the pickup’s doorframe. “You move,” I said, “I’ll drop you.”

  “You’re getting yourself into a heap of trouble, my friend.”

  “If there is one thing in this world I am not, it is your friend,” I shot back. “I know goddamn well what you are. And now I want to know where Kat is.”

  “How the fuck would I know that?”

  “I’m not a man with a great deal of patience,” I warned. “You know what I’m capable of. I’ll ask you one more time. Where is she?”

  I could almost see the wheels turning as he calculated his chances of surviving a shootout with me. Had he not known I had spent the majority of my working life as an FBI agent I was sure he would have chanced it, but he had to know I was not going to lose a battle under these conditions.

  He surprised me. Maybe it was the realization that his world was crumbling around him no matter which way he chose to go. In one practiced and rapid movement he dropped, rolled, and came up with his Smith and Wesson semi-automatic unloading in rapid fire. Bullets sh
attered my truck door at the same instant I returned fire.

  It had been many years since I had spent time on a firing range and my lack of practice wasn’t hard to see. The fact that I had chosen a Glock 18 with a 33 round magazine compensated a lot for my lack of recent experience. This particular model, as Miles had explained, had a selector lever that when shifted to the bottom position, which I had, would shoot fully automatic. In simple terms it was a mother of a weapon. Even at that, there were very few bullets left in the magazine before Fordham was finally brought to a stop.

  When the noise died I realized with some surprise that I’d been shot myself. One bullet had grazed my skull above my left ear leaving a long and messy trail that oozed blood rather frighteningly, soaking my shirt collar and shoulder. Another bullet had lodged in the upper thigh of my left leg. This one, very fortunately for me, had penetrated the pickup’s steel door before finding me and, as a result, had not gone deep enough to shatter my femur. It, too, was bleeding heavily, though.

  As the adrenalin rush began to subside, the pain struck me hard. I felt like I’d been hit by a bus and had to fight off the urge to pass out. With the increasing pain came a wave of severe nausea. I leaned heavily against my bullet-riddled truck for several moments. But I knew I couldn’t vacillate long before doing something to stem the flow of blood from my wounds. I reached into the truck and grabbed my jacket, then used my knife to cut off the arms. I wrapped one of them around my head and used the other to hold the folded up remains of the jacket against the hole in my leg.

  I looked over at Fordham. I had seen enough dead bodies in my time to know he wouldn’t be going anywhere but I had to see him up close just the same. I hobbled over to where he lay. I was amazed to see he had only been hit three times and two of his wounds were superficial. The one that did the deed, however, did it well. The bullet had entered his skull about an inch and a half above his eyebrows and blew off a big chunk at the back of his head. Not pretty. But I’d be a liar if I said I felt an ounce of remorse or regret. As far as I was concerned the bastard had gotten exactly what he deserved. Nonetheless, I found myself caught up in a process of self-criticism. After what I had done to Reuben Henderson I had been so sure that I would never again, no matter what the provocation, find myself a purveyor of violence.

  How wrong I had been.

  In any case, I had no more time for deliberating. I had to get myself out of the area and I had to do it fast.

  Okay, I thought, get it together. What was there that would confirm my presence at this scene? First up, of course, my blood. It was quite liberally pooled over the grass and gravel beside my truck. Rather than try to cover up its existence I took the time to scoop up the dirt and grass and threw it into the truck bed. I looked around for any other signs that needed to be eradicated. The ground wasn’t soft enough to show tire tread and I couldn’t see anything else that could tie me to what had happened here. If I got rid of the Glock I was in the clear.

  Well … one can dream.

  33

  As I sped from the scene of Fordham’s grisly demise my only thoughts were to put as much distance between it and myself as fast as humanly possible. Somewhere along the way, though, the realization dawned that a lot of details needed to be dealt with before presenting myself back home. My head wound was not exactly inconspicuous and the .40 caliber slug embedded in my leg was not something I could ignore for very long. The pain was intense and getting worse.

  Luckily Fordham had picked an extremely remote spot for our little confrontation and I passed not a single vehicle as I burned up the road back to the main highway.

  Dealing with that bullet was priority one but getting rid of the Glock was a close second. I couldn’t just toss it out my window. It would have to end up at the bottom of a lake and there wasn’t one in close proximity. For the time being it would remain where it was, wrapped in a rag and tucked under the seat of the pickup, in the wire mesh that contained the seat’s stuffing. It would probably survive a cursory search but certainly not a thorough one.

  My only immediate option seemed to be to head home and hope that Callie could dig the bullet out of me. I figured I should phone ahead and let her know I’d be home soon and that she should be prepared to do some minor surgery. I pulled the truck to the side of the road and reached for my cell phone. I had turned it off the night before and when I powered it up I saw there were five missed calls, all from a number I didn’t recognize. There were not many people who had my cell number and although I was in bad shape something told me, if I was smart, I would return this call. I punched in the number and waited through three rings. A man’s voice answered. It wasn’t a voice I knew. I very nearly hung up when a woman’s voice suddenly came on the line. “Jack? Is that you?”

  It was Kat.

  I was so surprised and delighted to hear her voice, to learn she hadn’t died at the hands of that miserable son-of-a-bitch I had just blown away, that I almost forgot about the pain I was in. “Kat,” I answered, “I was sure you were … that Fordham---”

  “I knew you’d be worried when I didn’t show up at work,” she explained. “I tried to call you but there was never an answer on your cell phone.”

  “What happened? Where did you go?”

  “I spotted RJ the other night casing out my house. I knew I was in trouble and I couldn’t get through to you so I phoned my son. Devon came and got me immediately and took me back to his place in Rumford. I’m afraid to go back to Colville, Jack. I’m sure that maniac is going to kill me. I can feel it.”

  “Kat, I’ve got something to tell you. Fordham is dead.”

  “What? He’s dead? You---?”

  “Yeah. But the thing is … I’m hurt. I’ve got a bullet in my leg and I can’t very well go to a hospital.”

  “Jesus, Jack. What the hell? Okay, where are you right now?”

  “I’m in my pickup on Highway 108 about five miles west of Colville.”

  “Okay, turn around and come here to Rumford. You’ll cross two bridges when you get near town. After you cross the second bridge you’ll see a park on your left. We’ll meet you there. It’s not that far – shouldn’t take you long. Are you okay to make it?”

  “Yeah, I’ll make it.”

  Kat’s directions were easy enough to follow and I was at the park in less than twenty minutes. When I pulled in to the parking area I saw Kat get out of a late model Buick. A young guy – presumably her son – got out the driver’s door and followed Kat to my truck. When they saw me up close they looked panic stricken. “Jesus, Jack,” Kat said when she looked in my open window, “you said you were shot in the leg. It looks like half your head has been blown off!”

  “My head wound is just a scrape,” I assured her. “It looks a lot worse than it is. Honest.”

  Neither of them looked convinced. The five bullet holes in my door did little to ease their angst.

  “Slide over,” Kat ordered. “I’ll drive.”

  I did as ordered and we followed Devon to the home he and his wife shared. It was a nicely renovated two storey colonial in an upscale area of similar homes.

  Kat parked the pickup in a garage behind the house. “I don’t want those bullet holes drawing attention,” she said.

  Together Devon and Kat got me into the house. Devon was a handsome guy, dark-haired and slender like his mother but, unlike her, very tall.

  It wasn’t easy but they managed to get me up the stairs to a small bedroom on the second floor. “Devon,” Kat said, “this sorry looking mess is Jack Parmenter. Jack, my son, Devon.”

  “Sorry we didn’t meet under better conditions,” Devon said, “but try to relax. My wife, Sharon, is an emergency room nurse. She’ll be home in an hour. She’ll know what needs to be done.”

  Kat peeled off my blood-soaked makeshift bandages and ruined shirt and used scissors to cut away my pant leg so they could see the wound. I didn’t even want to look at it but judging by the looks on their faces it was not a pleasant sight.
r />   Devon brought a container of Tylenols and a glass of water. “Take a few of these,” he said. “They might help a little.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you guys,” I said.

  Kat brought folded dish towels which she placed over the still bleeding wounds. “Try to rest,” she murmured.

  After a few minutes the Tylenols started to have an effect and I dozed a little. When I came awake I saw Kat sitting in a chair beside the bed with a worried look on her face. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  “Hundred percent,” I said.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Listen, Kat, would you or Devon be willing to drive to Colville and get Callie?”

  “Sure, of course.”

  “Great. I’m going to call her and explain as best I can what’s happened. And I’m going to call Miles and tell him we’ve decided to take a little holiday for a few days. At least it’ll be an explanation for our absence if anyone – and by that I mean Jessup – wonders where we are.”

  “Good idea. Phone her now and I’ll leave right away.”

  “By the way,” I said, grimacing painfully, “my gun is under the seat in the pickup. It needs to be disposed of. I’d suggest you take it with you and drop it in that river we crossed on the way here.”

  She gave me a doleful look and then nodded her head.

  The call to Callie was a tough one. I tried to minimize the damage I had sustained but I had to tell her enough to bring home how important it was that she do as I asked. She couldn’t understand, of course, why I needed to keep the fact that I was hurt a secret. But she trusted me and said she’d be ready to leave when Kat arrived. I told her to pack enough clothes to last a week or so.

  Some time after Kat left Devon came into the room with a strikingly attractive woman wearing a nurse’s uniform. She was average height, athletic-looking, and had thick, auburn hair worn in a high pony-tail. “Jack, this is my wife, Sharon,” he said.