by Mark Stone
The Eagles were singing about “Lyin’ Eyes” as I made a quick U-turn in the middle of a road that — at this hour — was almost completely empty. It might have been a bad move, but I was a cop. It wasn’t like I was going to give myself a ticket.
My attention turned back to Charlotte, as did a bit of my anger. Boomer and my grandfather were one thing, but she was something else entirely. I loved her. I goddamned loved her, and she loved me too. Or, at least, she said she did. Was it all a lie? Was I a prelude to the younger, richer Storm?
She was supposed to be with me. She was supposed to mine, but she wasn’t. She wasn’t anything to me.
She knew how I felt about Peter, how awful he’d been, how horrible he’d treated me and my mother. And now she was in it too. She had a kid with him. She was—
A sickening thought crashed into the forefront of my mind. The boy.
I knew the hell of growing up as an unwanted Storm. Charlotte had said things with Isaac’s father — with Peter — were complicated. I didn’t see either of them at my father’s funeral, which led me to believe that — if Peter had any relationship with the child at all — it was a strained and sporadic one.
He was very likely going through what I’d gone through. He had a father who probably didn’t want him and very likely didn’t validate his existence, and he was being raised by a single mother who was doing her best. He didn’t have a grandfather though. Charlotte’s had died when we were kids and mine had just been laid in the ground himself, not that he’d have been much assistance when he was around.
He did have an uncle though, one who had just pulled away on two wheels when he learned of his existence.
Even more guilt piled onto me as “Lyin’ Eyes” gave way to “Witchy Woman”. I didn’t know if I was justified in feeling hurt but, even if I was, that didn’t mean I could take it out on this kid. My father’s entire family pretended like I didn’t exist. I needed to make sure Isaac couldn’t say the same thing when he grew up.
I turned back toward Charlotte’s house, pushing down whatever discomfort I felt in favor of doing what I knew in my soul was right. I needed to apologize, I needed to listen to what she had to say, and I needed to do whatever I could to be in that kid’s life.
By the time “Witchy Woman” became “Desperado”, I was almost in the driveway.
As soon as I pulled in though, I could tell something was wrong. The lights were on, all of them throughout the house. The front door was open and the screen door was ajar.
My jaw tightened and my pulse flared up as I took it in. This was the middle of the night. I had probably upset Charlotte with my leaving so quickly, but I knew better than to think she’d wake her kid by flinging the door open and turning on every light in response. No. This was something else, and I didn’t like the look of it.
I threw the car in park, and opened the door. As soon as I did that, I heard a familiar and sickening sound. A gun fired inside the house, the loud bang forcing me into full on panic mode.
I grabbed my gun and ran for the house, pulling my phone out as I moved. I didn’t have a walkie-talkie or a radio in this car, so I dialed up 911 and told them there was an emergency with gun fire. I gave them Charlotte’s address and cased the house. Normally, I would be able to scan the area, looking for the important signs: Points of exit and entry, signs of multiple intruders. I couldn’t think about any of that though, Charlotte was in here, and so was my nephew. Inside a house where a gun had just been discharged. From the corner of my eye, I saw lights pop on in the house next door. This was a good sign. If this woke the neighbors, it meant that they could hear it, and the fact that they were only now rising meant what I’d heard was probably the first shot. With God’s grace, I wouldn’t be running into a horror show.
I rushed through the doorway, my eyes peeled and my gun drawn. My heart was pounding and my chest was tight with fear, not for myself, but for Charlotte and her son. If they died, if they had been killed just minutes after I left their house, I would never be able to forgive myself for that. For one, I could have stopped it if I was there. I was trained for that. And secondly, I had little doubt the break in was because I had been there in the first place. The fire at my house was obviously an attempt on my life, and now this. It couldn’t be a coincidence.
Still, I kept my focus. I kept my mind clear and called upon my years of training to see me through. If I was going to deal with this the right way, it would be with a clear head…regardless of what I found inside.
I rushed into the living room and relief mixed with my alarm. Charlotte stood there, gun in hand. Isaac was behind her, crying his eyes out and shaking. In front of them was a line of blood.
It was her. She had been the one who took the shot, and it looked like she drew blood.
“A man just busted right in,” she said, her voice shaky. “I thought he was you. I thought—”
“Where is he now?” I asked, keeping my tone steady and to the point while my heart thumped like I was about to explode from the stress of it.
“He ran,” she said, shaking her head. “I shot him and he ran out the back.
My eyes flickered from Charlotte to Isaac, to eyes like mine, like my brother’s. I blinked at him. As much as he was Peter, he was also Charlotte. He had a red tint to his hair, and he had her nose.
“Are you guys okay?” I asked.
“We’re fine,” she answered, the sort of sure only a mother who knew the whereabouts and condition of her child at all times could ever really demonstrate. “What do you think he wanted?”
“I don’t know,” I said. I had my suspicions. I figured this guy either wanted me or to send me a message. There was no need to lay that on the two of them now though.
Charlotte nodded slightly. “Do you think he’ll come back?”
“Maybe” I answered. “Where’d you shoot him?”
“I don’t know,’ she admitted. “It was so quick.”
“It’s okay,” I said, looking at the gun in her hand and feeling pride she’d been able to use it to protect herself and her son.
Good girl.
“It doesn’t matter though,” I said, looking to the back. I could see a door pushed open through the back hallway, a line of blood running out it. “Because I’m going after him.”
“Dillon, no!” she said sharply, and the concern in her voice strangely made me feel better.
“Charlotte, it’s my job,” I said. “You stay here, keep that boy of yours safe. Help is on the way.”
She nodded and I started out the back.
“Dillon!” she shouted again. I turned quickly. She had tears in her eyes as she lowered the gun. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”
I looked at her and, in that moment, she looked just like she did back then, all pink cheeks and innocence. The weight of the world, of our lives and the choices we made fell away in the light of her living room. We were just us. Just her and me.
“I promise, Char,” I said softly.
Then I headed out into the woods.
19
Anger pulsed through me like adrenaline, driving me forward as I ran out into the woods. I knew this area. Charlotte grew up here, which meant I’d spent more than a few nights running back and forth from the beach, through the woods, and right up to her back door. I had to be quiet back then so that her dad wouldn’t hear me sneaking up at ungodly hours. I was still quiet after he died, more out of reverence than anything else.
I would be quiet tonight too, though for completely different reasons. Whoever the bastard who broke into Charlotte’s house was, I didn’t want him to know I was coming. I wanted him to be stone cold stunned when one of Chicago’s finest pummeled him like a slab of meat in the freezer of a Rocky movie.
I wanted his eyes to go wide with fear as I stood over him, pointing my gun at his worthless head and using that leverage to pull every bit of information he had out of him like droplets of sweat.
This happened tonight, the same night Peter Storm
had been arrested. That wasn’t a coincidence. My father had been a very powerful man and, with his death, that power was passed down to Peter like a crown. It was the natural progression of things seeing as how I had never been anything other than trash to those people. Even trash had things he loved though and, when you screw with them, that trash is going to hit back.
I scanned the woods as well as I could in the dark. These were back roads and — as such — lacking in the sort of lighting places closer to the main strip of town received. It was dark back there, too dark for me to see much in the way of detail.
The man I was chasing would have a distinct advantage here. He had been out here longer. His eyes had been given more time to adjust to the pitch black that surrounded me as I entered the woods. Still, I knew this place and, even without my eyes, I could get around.
Muscle memory took over as my feet fell against a familiar path. This dirt lane led right through the woods and to the beach. I’d taken it more times than I could count back in the day. It was very nearly a straight shot and, if this guy wanted to get away quickly, he was probably straight up ahead of me.
Of course, people have very different reactions when their fight or flight instinct is triggered. Just because I assumed this guy chose “flight” didn’t make it true. If he wanted to get to me, now would be an amazing time to do it.
I came to a stop, hearing a rustling in the woods to my left. Spinning quickly, I pointed my gun out into the only slightly lighter abyss.
Why did this have to happen tonight? Why couldn’t he have waited until at least dawn? I’d have been able to see my damn hand in front of me then. I wouldn’t be jumping at what was probably a squirrel or a fox out on the hunt for a midnight snack.
I could hear the thunder claps of my heart beating as I stood there, peering off into the distance, trying to see if a man stood out there somewhere.
I was about to turn and keep on my way, when a force plowed into my back.
It took the wind out of my lungs as I was driven forward toward the ground. I tightened my grip on my gun, seeing little need in letting it fly from my person for a second time. Still, I held it outward, stretching my hands so that if the impact caused it to go off, it would fire off into the woods instead of into my chest.
A weight settled on me as I slammed into the ground, my face hitting hard against the compact sand and gravel of the path. Suddenly, I realized how I had been tricked. This gravel, these pebbles. This guy had one and had thrown it in the opposite direction of where he was standing in order to divert my attention.
It was a rudimentary trick but, in the dark, it worked like a charm.
The guy grunted on top of me, cramming his forearm into the back of my neck and driving my neck further into the dirt, cutting off my air supply. The guy reeked of sweat, but also of honey and lilac, an almost feminine smell circulating over me. He wasn’t feminine though. He was burly and hairy and his voice was a baritone as he growled at me.
“Stop struggling,” he said in a deeply Southern accent. “It’ll be simpler if you don’t struggle.”
Yeah, simpler for you, “I thought as the lack of air filled my head with pressure. I did as he asked and stopped struggling though. Not because it would be simpler. If my grandfather survived a stint in the Army, a house fire, and now cancer, I wasn’t about to let myself get murdered by some sugary scented loser hiding in the woods.
No. I needed to clear my head, to look at my options and pull out the thing from my training that would help me here. The lack of air was really starting to get to me, but even that wasn’t the most pressing issue. Now that I had stopped struggling, this idiot had really born down. The pressure of his forearm against my throat, aided by his weight, was formidable. He was going to crush my windpipe if I didn’t do something about this quickly.Quickly, I analyzed my situation. I was in the woods. I was on the ground. I had a gun pointed in the wrong direction and I was unable to twist either of my arms in a direction that would make it useful.
Maybe I didn’t need to though. A gun had two sides and, if I couldn’t shoot him with the barrel, I could hammer him with the butt.
Sliding my finger across to put the safety on, I turned the gun in my hand, and pulled my arm back hard at the elbow.
The gun slammed into his head hard and I heard him grunt again. Still, he didn’t let go. I hit him again and again, hard in the head. He didn’t move. This bastard was still on top of me, still keeping sweet air from my lungs. Then I remembered the blood from before. Charlotte said she’d shot him in the arm. Since his left forearm was pressed against my neck, I figured the wounded one had to be the right. Luckily, the gun was in my right hand. So, turning my target just a little, I aimed for where I knew his arm would be. Hitting it hard, I heard him squeal and knew I’d hit pay dirt. I slammed into his arm again and took in a deep breath of cool, glorious air as he pulled back.
Using the movement to my advantage, I spun, pushing him up off me and whipped the butt of the gun across his face. He fell to the side and began crawling away from me on the ground.
Gulping up greedy breathes of air, I got to my feet. “You,” I said, my throat on fire. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of—”
The man turned toward me quickly. I took a second to look at his face as he spun. A close-cropped beard, pale white skin, and protruding ears. I didn’t recognize him, which meant that he either wasn’t from here or he had been young enough when I left for me not to have known him. I couldn’t tell in the dark with my mind racing as it was.
He lunged toward me. I didn’t see the blade in his hand until an instant before it drove into my gut. I didn’t feel the pain at first either. I guess it was something to do with the adrenaline. I looked down, staring at the hilt of the knife in disbelief. Then, a small pinprick of pain started in my stomach. In an instant, an explosion of pain and nausea ran through me.
This man’s hand was still on the hilt of the knife though and I realized with one hard pull, he could gut me like one of the fish my grandfather and I had caught off the boat back in the day.
Quickly, I used the strength I had left to throw a punch. It connected with his jaw, sending him tumbling backwards. Thankfully, he let go of the knife as he tripped and fell to the ground again. Bracing myself, I pulled the knife from my gut. If I didn’t feel it going in, I felt it come out. I saw stars, spots in my vision as I jerked the knife out of me.
With my other hand, I pointed the gun at the bastard.
Blood, life poured out of me in a torrent that took with it most of my warmth and energy. Panicking, I pressed my hand as firmly as I could against the wound. Looking up from the ground, his eyes got wide. I could see it all over his face. This guy didn’t know if I was going to shoot him, if I was going to end his life right here in these woods.
“Put your goddamned hands behind your head,” I said, swallowing hard, hoping I was strong enough to do this given my injury.
I heard sirens in the background as I watched this guy do as I asked. I needed to reach for the cuffs on my belt, but doing that would mean either taking the gun off this loser or removing pressure from my wound. Neither was acceptable.
Luckily, I heard footsteps behind me. In an instant, a couple police officers pointed guns at the man..
“We have an injury,” the female officer said, catching sight of my condition. “Detective Storm, are you all right? You can stand down now. There’s an ambulance en route.”
Oh course there was. I said a little prayer, thanking my Maker for a lot of things, but mostly for seeing both me and Charlotte and her son through this. There were a lot of questions left to answer, and thankfully, now I had someone other than my brother to point them toward. With any luck, if this guy was working for Peter, he’d fold like a cheap suit when we put some pressure on him.
That could wait though. All of it could wait until I got myself stitched up.
“Dilly?” Charlotte’s
voice sounded from behind me. I had told her not to call me that, that she didn’t deserve to use that name for me anymore. As I turned toward her though and saw the tears streaming down her face, all of that contentiousness melted away. In an instant, I gave her the absolution she hadn’t asked for, forgiveness that probably wasn’t even necessary. She hadn’t done anything to hurt me, but seeing me hurt was killing her. It was written all over that beautiful face.
“I told you not to leave,” I said, surprised at how weak my voice sounded right now. In fact, I was started to feel weak all over. “The boy—”
“Isaac is fine,” she said, rushing toward me and wrapping her arms around me. I didn’t realize how much I needed that until I found myself folding in on her, my legs giving out underneath me. “Dilly!” she said, helping guide me to the ground.
I laid on my back and listened to her scream for help.
“I’m okay,” I said in an almost whisper, feeling a mix of anger and sleepiness. “I’ll be okay.”
Her tears fell warm on my face and, in the moments before the medics descended over me, before sleep took me over and stole me from this muggy Florida night, a thought crossed my mind.
Even after all these years, even after all we’d been through, I knew she still loved me
20
I woke slowly, the pain in my head matched only by the throbbing in my gut. The room was bright and the methodical beeping told me that not only was I in a hospital bed (which I expected), but that I was also hooked up to a machine (which seemed a little dramatic to me). I’d only taken a knife to the abdomen. Sure, it had been severe enough for me to pass out on the ground outside Charlotte’s house, but I had seen a lot worse during my time up in Chicago. Hell, I’d wager Boomer had seen worse too.
My eyes opened slowly and adjusted to the light. My grandfather was stretched across the couch next to my bed, his mouth open wide, snoring so loudly that I wondered why it hadn’t woken me up before this.