Cold Blue

by Gary Neece

  John broke down. His sister heard the commotion and joined them. The three stayed up talking and crying till dawn. John no longer blamed his mother and realized her torment. Along with the agony of not knowing Ben’s fate, John’s mother suffered the regret of sending her husband off with a cold shoulder. A few weeks later, she received a phone call before informing her children their father had been killed in a training accident. She would never recover from her guilt.

  Margaret Thorpe died two years later after being diagnosed with bone cancer. She’d been given six months but didn’t make it half that long. John believed she simply lost the will to live. During her funeral, he realized how much his mother had sacrificed; there was scarcely a soul in attendance, a testament to the devotion his mother had bestowed upon her family. She’d sacrificed her entire life for her husband and children.

  Then, only thirteen months ago, his new family had been destroyed. The horrific images from that night poisoned his thoughts—Ella in his arms, her pale complexion, hair smoothed back on her head, cold to the touch. Dead. Thorpe pushed away the memory of his slain daughter. He couldn’t go through that again—not now. No wonder he was more than a little screwed up. Who wouldn’t be? But he worried about who he was becoming.

  He identified himself as a Christian, but how could he justify his actions? The people he hunted were killers and preyed on the weak, but did their sins give him the right to be judge, jury and executioner? Thorpe hoped on Judgment Day he wouldn’t be standing in line with the same people he’d helped remove from this world. He hoped there were exceptions to the “Thou Shall not Kill” rule. Deep down, he suspected he was only justifying his actions.

  Thorpe took the last drink of his last beer, patted his dogs on the head, and walked back inside his home. After brushing his teeth, Thorpe looked in the mirror as he slowly traced one of the scars on his chest with an index finger.

  With moistened eyes, he spoke unconvincingly to his reflection, “You’re a good boy, Johnny, and you always will be.”

  Tuesday

  February 6

  Late morning

  THE NEXT MORNING, WHILE THORPE gathered fallen tree limbs near the front of his property, Al and Trixie tore off in a full sprint and disappeared into the thick woods. The dogs didn’t bark, and after a few minutes trotted back to where Thorpe worked. Several seconds later, the familiar form of Deborah Jennings came bouncing down the road. The woman was trouble with a capital D—the “D” in reference to her surgically enhanced breasts, which were on full display. Thorpe had stumbled into a one-hour relationship with Deborah just after he’d moved into the neighborhood. It was an encounter he’d instantly regretted and tried hard not to repeat. They’d met on an occasion much like the one repeating itself today.

  Then, he’d only been in his new house for a short time. He didn’t know a thing about his neighbors, and with the large acreage, he figured the situation wasn’t likely to change. Thorpe had been clearing fallen branches from his newly purchased property on a day exceeding a hundred degrees. In a time when both fit and unfit men shrink-wrapped themselves in formfitting T-shirts, he went to great lengths to mask his muscular form.

  “Don’t ever show the enemy your hand, son. Make him think your strengths are your weaknesses, and your weaknesses are your strengths,” his father used to preach. Mostly, he kept his body covered in an effort to conceal his collection of scars, some of which acquired the night his opponent produced a knife, but there had been other altercations as well. When people saw his old wounds, they wanted to know the stories behind them. If the inquiries came from strangers, Thorpe spewed a line of crap they couldn’t dispute. However, his fellow cops possessed the resources to sniff out a fabricated story—and Thorpe couldn’t exactly be truthful when relating how he’d sustained his mementos. If only he’d heeded all of his father’s advice, such as, “Don’t shit in your own sandbox,” then Thorpe might not have found himself in his current predicament with this woman.

  The day they’d met, he’d dispensed with his usual precautions and discarded his shirt. Shimmering with sweat, he worked near the road in a pair of work boots and khaki shorts. Al and Trixie had yet to be trained, so the only warning Thorpe received was the sound of gravel crunching underfoot. Thorpe looked up to see Deborah running on the road. A tanned, toned, and pierced midriff was framed by black Lycra shorts and a black sports bra struggling to contain her ample bosom. The sight caused Thorpe to mumble, “Oh, my God.”

  As the woman approached, she caught sight of Thorpe, and her pace abated. Thorpe’s body was void of fat with muscle striations popping in his chest, arms, abdomen and back. The woman slowed to a walk, altered her course, and sashayed over to the fence to introduce herself.

  “Hi, neighbor…Deborah Jennings.”

  Thorpe approached, shed his work gloves, and accepted her extended hand. “John Thorpe.”

  Still holding his hand, Deborah broke eye contact and allowed her eyes to drift downward. “John, I hate to be so forward, but you have the most amazing body I’ve ever seen on a man.”

  “I bet you say that to all your neighbors.”

  “Hardly. How’d you get the scars?”

  “I’m a cop…Tulsa PD. Stuff happens.” Not exactly an answer to her question, but not a lie either.

  “Well, I feel safe knowing I have one of Tulsa’s finest living close by.”

  “Which house is yours?”

  “The big obnoxious one on the hill.”

  “Nice to meet you, Deborah.”

  “Yes, it is,” Deborah replied in full-flirt mode. She played with her hair and repeatedly touched Thorpe’s arm. “Sorry for being such a bad neighbor. I haven’t even brought you and your wife a housewarming gift.”

  “Not married.”

  “Divorced?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Deborah didn’t pursue the vague answer.

  The barn’s double doors were open, and Thorpe’s makeshift gym was visible from where Deborah stood.

  “You have a gym? Mind if take a look?” Deborah didn’t wait for his reply; in fact, she’d already been moving toward his gate while asking the question. Once on his property, she led the way to the barn. Visible from behind, her large breasts overtook her small frame. Deborah strutted through the garage door, paused at the punching bag, and threw a few punches. The scene was one of the most erotic Thorpe had ever witnessed. She’d successfully maneuvered onto his side of the board and used his own bishop to put him in checkmate.

  “John, I think you’d be an excellent personal trainer. Though to be sure, I’d first have to try out your equipment.”

  “I’m expensive.” Thorpe smiled.

  Deborah looked over her shoulder “I’m rich.”

  She walked over to a rack, lowered herself under a straight bar with no weights, and began performing squats. Facing away, she arched her back and thrust out her ass with every repetition. “If you’re that expensive you should at least give me a spot.”

  Thorpe moved in behind Deborah, laying his hands on the exposed and wanton curves between hips and waist. Deborah stepped backward, arched her back, and drove her firm buttocks into Thorpe as she dipped down. When she came back up, she again pressed herself into him. Thorpe lifted the bar off her shoulders and tossed it over his head. Deborah turned and ran her fingers down his chest and abdomen. She grabbed him from the outside of his shorts. They both collapsed to the padded mat, and with the doors still open, went at each other with little restraint.

  Thorpe had no idea whether any passersby had witnessed the exhibition. Deborah had proven to be an insatiable and somewhat violent lover. She’d continuously traced his scars with her fingers and tongue while engaged in relations, and courtesy of artificial nails, might even have carved a few new ones. Lying on the mat, Thorpe asked a question he’d neglected to ask prior to their interlude.

  “Are you married?”

  Deborah hesitated before responding “Yes, but that doesn’t mean we can’t se
e each other from time to time.”

  “It does for me.”

  “You didn’t seem too interested in whether I was married before we had sex.”

  “Like most people, I think a lot clearer after sex than before it.”

  “We’ll see,” Deborah said. With that, she dressed, bent over, flicked his nipple with her tongue, smiled, and began jogging toward the gate as if intercourse had just been a water station on her running route.

  Following the encounter, he’d avoided the fence line any time he saw Deborah approaching. Eventually, his dogs were trained not to let anyone inside the fence with the exception of Jeff—unless Thorpe issued the proper command. This kept Deborah from coming onto his property uninvited. And she couldn’t phone him because, like any decent cop, Thorpe had an unlisted number.

  Thorpe’s most recent encounter with a Jennings had been with the husband. Thorpe was running on the road when approached by a Mercedes with tinted windows. At first Thorpe worried Deborah sat behind the wheel, but as the car came to rest, the darkened driver’s window powered down and revealed an individual by whom he had little fear of being seduced.

  Mr. Jennings appeared to be in his late sixties, looked down a bulbous capillary-mapped nose indicative of a lifetime of alcohol abuse and was grossly overweight. He told Thorpe he worked as a corporate attorney in one of Tulsa’s larger law firms. Mr. Jennings appeared unaware of Deborah and Thorpe’s tryst. During their short conversation, Mr. Jennings had conveyed they had a live-in maid/chef and bragged about several belongings, including his young bride. Deborah was the quintessential trophy wife and probably no more cherished than the man’s other possessions, a thing to be worn on his arm and shown off at parties. Thorpe didn’t have much sympathy for Deborah; she obviously married the money, not the man. Still, maybe he’d been a little hard on the woman, though most of his avoidance measures were taken so he himself wouldn’t fall again.

  Today, on this warm winter’s morning, Deborah wore long tight running pants and a pink Lycra shirt with zippered front. The zipper dangled below a chasm of exposed cleavage. As Deborah approached, Thorpe smiled and raised his hand. She slowed to a walk. Al and Trixie began to let out low guttural growls until their master called them off.

  “You’re not going to release your hounds on me today?”

  “Sorry, Deborah. You were right. I was just as much to blame as you were. I didn’t want to know the truth.”

  Deborah tilted her head and studied him. “I had it coming…didn’t give you much of a chance. Look, I heard about your family. You were in a bad place.”

  Thorpe nodded his head; he was still in a bad place.

  “My husband says you two met the other day?”

  “Yeah. Although it wasn’t quite the rendezvous you and I had.”

  Deborah laughed. “I certainly hope not. He told me we needed to move. He said he’s embarrassed to share the neighborhood with a civil servant.”

  Thorpe figured the guy would pop a nose capillary if he knew what else they’d shared. “And here I thought he and I were going to be BFFs. Why do you guys live way out here, anyway?”

  “Thomas wanted a ‘country retreat.’ You should see the entertainment area we have behind our house and the view of Tulsa’s skyline. It was great at first, but now he has trouble getting his colleagues out to visit because of the drive. He’s all about entertaining and showing off. I have a feeling we’ll be moving back toward town soon.”

  “Well, I’m sure it’ll all work out.”

  “John, what happened between us…that’s not something I normally do. I don’t want you thinking I jump from bed to bed. I was in a bad place, too. I still am.”

  “Deborah, I don’t mean to sound callous, but it’s none of my business. I’m doing my damnedest not to break all Ten Commandments this month. You should be having this conversation with your husband.” Thorpe backed away from the fence. “I wish you luck, Deborah. I really do.” As he walked toward the house, he risked a glance over his shoulder and watched the overtaxed Lycra top resume its bouncing burden.

  My God that woman had a hard body. Thorpe glanced down to a trailing Al and Trixie “I should find a social life before the two of you start looking good to me.”

  Thorpe had been too consumed with finding his wife and daughter’s killers to fall into loneliness. It was moments such as these—when confronted with an attractive woman—that he was reminded of some basic needs missing from his life. He hadn’t been celibate for the last thirteen months; he’d had a few one-night stands. To engage in anything substantial seemed to be an affront to his lost family. If he were to become intimate with a woman, it would suggest he was moving on and starting afresh. Thorpe knew he wasn’t being logical, but he feared establishing a new relationship would feel like discarding his lost wife and daughter.

  Thorpe disappeared inside his home, and Jeff Gobin rolled up the drive. In addition to being his best friend, Jeff was the only person to visit on a regular basis. Other than his sister, he was also the only person aware of the combat prowess Thorpe possessed. Still, even Jeff didn’t know the extent of his training. He was also the only officer on the department Thorpe fully trusted. Not that he’d tell Jeff of his extracurricular activities; he wouldn’t want to put his friend in such a position.

  “You look like shit,” Jeff said as Thorpe pulled open his front door.

  “Thanks…drank a six-pack last night.”

  “You? A six-pack to you would be like a case to me. Thought you gave up drinking?”

  “I figured, under the circumstances, I’d better keep away from booze for a while,” Thorpe said, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

  “But you think you can handle it now?”

  “No, but kicking your ass still gives me much more satisfaction and is a hell of a lot cheaper than alcohol.”

  “Uh-huh. You’re in trouble today. I watched The Last Dragon last night. Learned some old-school moves.”

  “Shit, I remember that movie. Guess that makes you Sho’nuff, the Shogun of Harlem.”

  “I can’t believe you actually know that movie,” Jeff laughed.

  “Hey, maybe after our workout we can rent Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo.”

  “Very funny. You probably have a special edition of Dirty Dancing, don’t you?” retorted Jeff.

  “Another good movie. Nobody puts Baby in a corner.”

  “The sad thing is, you know the lines to all these fucking movies.”

  “It is sad, isn’t it? So what’s new in the Rat Squad?” Jeff was an investigative sergeant with Internal Affairs. Some officers just referred to the unit as The Rat Squad.

  “Same old shit…officers beatin’ the hell out of innocent citizens,” Jeff sarcastically declared as he waved off a cup of coffee.

  “My name come across your desk lately?”

  “No. Maybe we should get you a damn medal…no complaints for an entire week.”

  “Yeah. The only cops who don’t get complaints are the ones who don’t do real police work.”

  “You don’t have to tell me, brother. You’re acting like I wasn’t your partner for four years.”

  Thorpe smiled “Just making sure you haven’t crossed to the dark side.”

  “Why does it have to be the dark side, asshole? Why can’t it be the white side?”

  Both men laughed. Despite their lasting friendship, Thorpe and Jeff knew little of the other’s past. Thorpe figured his friend sensed his reluctance to talk of his childhood, or perhaps Jeff avoided inquires because he didn’t want to reciprocate. Either way, the arrangement suited Thorpe just fine.

  Thorpe’s pager started going off. He recognized the number of Robert Hull, the sergeant over Homicide.

  “Getting a call from Hull. A misdirected youth must have been on the wrong end of a bullet.” Thorpe punched the numbers into his cell phone.

  “Hull.”

  “Hey, Bob, what’s up?”

  “John, I think we found one of your boys. You kn
ow a Marcel Newman?”

  Sure Bob, I killed him just the other day. “Oh yeah, he’s a regular.” They found the body.

  “This isn’t your typical spray and pray. You’ll want to see this for yourself.”

  “Whattaya got?”

  “Son-of-a-bitch has been bound to a pole, looks like he’s been tortured. Been dead a couple of days.”

  Actually, Bob, it’s only been about twenty-seven hours. “Where you at?” Thorpe asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Go to Newton and Waco. A uniform will guide you in.”

  “Okay, Bob, I’m at the homestead. You going to be there for a while?”

  “Oh, yeah. This is a pretty fucked-up scene. We’ll be here all afternoon and then some.”

  “Okay, I’ll start my dayshift guys your way. I should be there in about thirty minutes.”

  “Hey, John, one more thing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You know anybody goes by the initials L.A.?”

  “A couple guys. Why?”

  “Looks like your boy wrote those initials in the dirt before he died.”

  “No shit?” Thorpe said, feigning surprise. “Marcel’s been trading rounds with a guy named Dwayne Foster who goes by ‘L.A.’”

  “Might be an easy case then.”

  “Well, we definitely have a starting point. I’ll start that way, Bob.”

  Thorpe left Jeff to finish the workout on his own. A few minutes later, as he crossed from the house to his truck, Thorpe heard the song “I touch myself” coming from the barn’s radio.

  Thorpe stuck his head through the door and yelled, “You better not be touching yourself in my barn.” Jeff grabbed himself and smiled. Thorpe laughed and walked to his truck. By the time he started the engine, his smile was gone.

  Tuesday

  February 6

  Afternoon

  THORPE TOOK THE SAME ROUTE to the scene as he had one day earlier. Was it just yesterday? It seemed like so much had happened since then. Traveling west on Newton, he could see boom cameras from the local TV stations towering above the trees. Thorpe approached a herd of slavering reporters held back by magical “Police Line Do Not Cross” tape like mooing heifers at a cattle guard. Risking a stampede, Thorpe parted the crowd with his truck, badged the uniformed officer manning the post and was allowed to drive underneath the tape. He pulled behind an assortment of detective vehicles and parked. Climbing out of his truck, he noticed several cameramen had their lenses trained on him. Thorpe walked back the direction he’d come. He informed the gathered news personnel he was an undercover officer and asked that they not air his image for officer safety reasons. The cameramen assured him he’d be edited out or given the standard pixelated treatment.