by Ninie Hammon
Jack flung open the door of the cruiser and leaned out in time not to spew his breakfast all over the side panel. With a sound like a bad driver grinding a manual transmission, he splattered it on the gravel, instead. Then he leaned his head on his forearm on the door and let reflexive heaving take him, felt the hot tears—from the nausea? No, he didn’t think so—stream down his face. It seemed to take a long time for the retching to stop, but Jack knew it was a time trick again, that he probably hadn’t been there three minutes before he leaned back in his seat and slammed his door shut, instantly better once he couldn’t smell the vomit.
But he didn’t drive on right away. He sat with his breathing ragged and shuddery, tears still spilling down his cheeks—no, it hadn’t been the nausea—and let the memory form in his head he was sure would haunt his every waking moment for the rest of his life.
His trained observation skills had been on autopilot at the time. Now they reported to him the information they’d collected. The little girl had been standing on something, a box of paper, perhaps, must have climbed up there to look out through a slit at the top of the metal door of the storage unit cabinet. She’d seen it all.
If she’d been on the floor, the upward trajectory of his shots might have missed her altogether. Or hit her in the head instead of the chest.
It was the first shot that got her. He was sure of it. He’d adjusted his aim left automatically when the force of the first bullet knocked the man sideways. It was the shot that took the shooter out, stopped the madman from butchering a roomful of children—that had passed through him into the child.
His mind’s eye followed the path of the bullet, slow motion. He watched it leave the barrel of his rifle, fly like a leisurely bee toward the shooter, plow through the shooter’s chest and continue through his body, out the other side and leisurely bee-fly through the air, through the door, into the little girl.
The pain of a headache he only now noticed cored into his left temple like an electric drill. He glanced at his watch and was stunned. It wasn’t even noon yet! The ground felt different under his feet, the world had shifted, would never again revolve the same way around the sun—a change like that ought to take more than a couple of hours.
He wiped his eyes with his shirt sleeve and glanced into the side mirror on his cruiser to make sure his cheeks were dry. The man who looked back at him had a serious—no, stern—face, not much accustomed to smiles, and angular features he could bring to bear in a flinty stare so razor-edged it would cause internal bleeding. He had the flash of a childhood memory, then, a snippet. A white boy, Dano, had asked him once if black people got pale or sunburned.
He was pale now. He shook his head, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he put the cruiser in gear and eased into the flow of traffic north on Interstate 71.
Harrison was already at the Sunoco, leaning against his car, smoking a cigarette, when Jack pulled up. He was a likeable guy who talked way too much, a big man who carried all his weight in a ponderous belly that hung out over his belt. Nobody’d been surprised when he took a medical leave for hernia surgery, and Jack couldn’t imagine how he’d ever pass a physical to go back on active duty. But then, he’d been passing physicals somehow for going on twenty years.
When he got into the cruiser, Jack actually felt the vehicle tilt slightly in his direction.
“Good to see you, Jack. Told the major I’d be glad to help if he’d send a uniform. Not quite up to chasing a bad guy yet.”
Jack merely nodded and turned the cruiser onto Lanyard Street.
“Hear you popped the shooter this morning,” Harrison said, disappointment that he’d missed all the action evident in his voice. “Talked to the major a minute ago. Far as they can tell, there was only one and you took him out.”
Jack caught the emphasis.
“Press got hold of the teacher’s aide and she’s saying you showed up like the Second Coming. You’re a hero.”
“The little girl, is she…?”
“I asked. Sorry, Jack. No news yet on her condition.”
Jack changed the subject.
“You know an Ohio State Trooper named Purvis? Never met the man before this morning but I’d have him watch my back any day.”
“Purvis? Yeah, I heard he…”
And Harrison was off to the races. Jack tuned him out, knew the big man would dribble the conversational ball the rest of the way down the court all by himself. When they rounded the curve onto Hurst Lane, both men shifted gears.
All the houses on the street were keep-up-with-the-Joneses huge, ensconced in wide, manicured lawns. But even in that setting, the dwelling at 3747 stood out. Gigantic bronze lions sat sentinel on either side of the driveway and the yard was littered with bird-baths, concrete gnomes, ponds, even a faux Venus de Milo statue beside a pool of goldfish and koi. Ostentatious on steroids.
Jack turned in the curved drive, pulled up to the porch, and got out of the car, then stood behind the opened door as he studied the house. Harrison did the same. Jack checked the curtained windows for movement. All was still.
Drawing his pistol, he gripped it in both hands, pointed it toward the ground and did a quick Groucho walk from the car to a large azalea bush. From there he rushed the house, leapt up the porch steps and flattened himself against the front wall beside the door. Harrison hung back, watchful. Without moving in front of the door, Jack reached over and knocked on it.
“This is the police. Open the door.”
A well-dressed, older woman flung the door wide—almost as if she’d been standing just inside waiting for his knock—and instantly began to babble, oblivious to Jack’s drawn weapon and stance.
“You’re here about Jacob, aren’t you? I knew it. I told Mildred, I said ‘Mildred, that boy’s going to get himself in some kind of trouble.’ And he has, hasn’t he?”
Jack holstered his gun and Harrison joined him on the porch.
“He’s…not right, you know,” she continued. “Never has been. We found out when he was a teenager that he was bipolar. They didn’t call it that then, but…he’s harmless, wouldn’t swat a fly…but different. At least he used to be.”
She took a deep, trembling breath, and looked over her shoulder as if she expected the Bogey Man to jump out of a closet and grab her. “Then he changed, overnight he changed and became…mean, secretive, somebody I didn’t even know.” She leaned close and whispered urgently, “I’m sure he murdered Bentley.”
Harrison stiffened. “Who’s Bentley?”
“My precious Pomeranian. He was in the back yard barking at Jacob’s cat—Jacob adores his cat—and then suddenly he was quiet. I went to check on him and…”
Her hands began to tremble and so did her voice.
“Sweet Bentley was lying on the patio by the back door. And his…the vet said his neck was broken.”
A picture formed in Jack’s mind. A little girl with blonde hair was holding the bloody body of a dog. She was crying. Then the image vanished—poof!—and was gone.
“So Jacob doesn’t live with you here?” Harrison asked.
“Oh, heavens no. After he…after what happened to Bentley, I changed all the locks on the house and he doesn’t have a key. About a week ago, I was cleaning the attic and found a box of his stuff—Mama’s keepsakes—old report cards, crayon drawings, things like that, and I was so afraid of him, I left it on his porch. The box is still sitting right where I left it. If he weren’t my baby brother, I…he lives in an apartment below his…office…in the carriage house out back.” She paused. “You know, the same thing happened when he was a boy. He suddenly became mean and ugly. For one whole summer, he—”
“Thank you for your time, Ma’am,” Harrison corked the flow of her stream of words. “Other officers will come by later and they’ll have more questions for you, but right now—”
“What’s he done? The look in his eyes sometimes…what’s he done?”
“You can discuss that with the other officers. I’m
sure they’ll be here soon to talk to you. If you’ll excuse us, we want to see your brother’s place.”
“He’s not home. I heard him drive away early this morning. He keeps the place all locked up, the curtains drawn. I guess because”—she looked embarrassed—“when you see it, you’ll understand what I mean…that he’s not right.”
* * * * * * *
Something was definitely wrong with Emily’s phone. As soon as she turned it on, it showed more than four dozen incoming calls—in only a couple of hours. All from Dan. But only one message, which she didn’t listen to.
The last thing she wanted as she pulled reluctantly out of the parking lot of The River’s Bend was to hear Dan’s voice. She wanted to hold onto the moments for a little while longer. The fantasy-perfection of their time together was a silver light shining all around her. Not on her, from her. It was light Jeff had ignited in her that no other man ever had.
She didn’t want the light to fade, and fade it would, as soon as she returned to the real world with traffic and shirts at the cleaners and Andi’s orthodontist appointment. She wanted to hold onto the magic a little longer so she didn’t pull out of the driveway of the inn right away. Sat for a few moments, feeling the touch of his hands on her skin, of his lips on hers. Feeling the fiery eruption of passion she’d never dreamed was within her.
She imagined she could smell his cologne, the scent of—his cologne! That sobered her. Surely, she was imagining it. She couldn’t really smell it—could she? That’s all she needed, to show up back home from her dentist appointment reeking of a man’s cologne—not a brand that boring Dan would ever wear.
Had he actually been that boring, that predictable, that maddeningly colorless when they got married? If he had, why in the name of common sense had she gone through with the ceremony?
But she knew the answer to that. She hadn’t been running to Dan, she’d been running from—
Bam! The sound of that door slamming shut in her mind seemed so loud she wondered if it had actually made an audible sound.
At the time, Dan hadn’t seemed boring. He’d seemed safe. He was a minister, but not just any minister. He was young and bright, and maybe he’d even been fun at the time. Emily couldn’t remember anymore. He was a star, he was…what was it they called him—he was “the package.” Charming, charismatic, a dynamite preacher. He’d moved quickly up the ranks, hopped from one church to another, like crossing a creek on the stones until he’d finally grabbed the brass ring.
Voice of Hope Community Church, the biggest church in its denomination in the whole country. Teetering on the brink of mega-church-dom. And she liked being the preacher’s wife associated with that. Liked the social standing, the respect and the deference—and the money and the big house.
Oh, Emily saw behind the curtain, all right. She knew the Great Oz was only pulling levers and pushing buttons and making lots of steam. She wasn’t entirely convinced Dan saw it, though. Did he recognize the game he was playing?
Maybe. Maybe not. What did it matter?
She sighed. She should probably listen to Dan’s message.
No, better to talk to him. She picked up her phone but before she had a chance to dial, it rang in her hand.
“Hi, Dan.” She tried to sound cheery but didn’t think she pulled it off well. “Turned my phone on and I see you’ve been calling me—something’s wrong with the counter, though. It says fifty-four times. What’s up?”
When he answered, the phone started acting up again, garbling his words. It sounded like he said Andi’d been shot.
“Dan, slow down. There’s something wrong with my phone and you’re breaking up. What did—?”
“I said Andi’s been shot!” he screamed at her.
Emily couldn’t catch her breath. A mistake. A joke. It had—
“There was a man with a gun at her school. Didn’t you hear the sirens?”
She’d heard, but—
“And Andi was shot. Am I getting through to you, Emily? Do you understand what I’m saying? She’s at Jefferson Memorial Hospital. Your daughter has been shot.”
Emily didn’t want to listen for fear of believing him, didn’t want to hear the rest of what he was saying.
She cried out something, some word, made some noise, but the shrill sound of her own voice terrified her. A cold rock formed where her stomach had been a moment before and began to pull all her organs downward, twisting them, stretching them out of shape, filling them with hard cold and sharp edges.
She could hear someone screaming, a woman’s voice, making a sound like an animal caught in a trap. She had no idea who it could be, who it could possibly be.
CHAPTER 8
Jack and the detective made their way around to the back of the house to the two-story building in the corner of the yard snuggled up to a big oak tree behind a kidney-shaped swimming pool. Jack approached the building, gun drawn, as he had the main house. He scooted the cardboard box the woman had mentioned out of the way with his toe so he could flatten himself against the wall beside the door. No one answered his knock.
Then the men heard a sound from inside, a thump, and somebody, or something cried out. Jack instantly responded. That was probable cause to kick the door in.
Only in TV cop shows did officers slam their bodies into a door to break it down. Good way to dislocate a shoulder. Jack leaned back on one foot and smashed his other into the door beside the knob, and the jamb wood shattered. When the door flew inward, a cat leapt gracefully between Jack’s legs, streaked across the back yard and was gone.
They stepped inside, both with guns drawn. It was quickly clear the woman had not imposed her ponderous bad taste on her brother’s living space. It was as austere as a monk’s chamber. The few furnishings were modern—all chrome and glass and asymmetrical sharp angles. The art consisted of bare canvasses with splattered-paint designs that reminded Jack uncomfortably of the breakfast he’d left on the roadside this morning.
The officers systematically searched the downstairs of the building, room by room, every closet, under the bed, inside every cabinet. Nothing out of the ordinary. The bedroom smelled like an old sneaker, but that wasn’t surprising. Jack had noticed the guy had a serious hygiene problem. Still, there was no hint that the man who lived here had gotten up this morning—didn’t shower or shave, the shower was dry—then loaded his car with guns and chains and went to an elementary school to shoot children.
They mounted the stairs to the second floor. The door at the top of the steps opened into a single large room darkened by drawn drapes. Jack felt along the wall until he found the light switch. When he flipped it, the room was bathed in flickering florescent yellow from a lone tube bulb hanging by wires from the ceiling. It provided the kind of light that gave everything a sickly tint, made your face in a mirror look like you were dying of pancreatic cancer.
When Jack and Harrison surveyed the single room, they understood what Dumas’s sister had meant by “not right.” There was not a centimeter of wall space from the floor to the ceiling that wasn’t covered with something, stuck to the bare wood with stickpins, layers and layers. Newspaper pages, mostly, though there were magazine pages, too, roadmaps, calendars from 2006 and 2009, nautical maps, floor plans, three-foot squares of yellowed butcher paper with diagrams and geometric shapes drawn on them, napkins, pages torn out of books, ribbons, catalogue pages showing guns and ammunition.
There were assembly instructions for God only knew what, spiral notebook pages ripped out so they still dangled tails of ragged holes, yard sale signs, black-and-white photos of things like park benches and lamp posts—not artsy shots with cool shadows and shading. Just a park bench, dead on. And every scrap of paper was dotted with red spots. Sets of two dots and three. Dots forming squares and triangles—looked like from a Sharpie, so many dots the walls looked like they had diaper rash.
There were strange symbols in blue Sharpie, too, shapes that looked to Jack like a lame attempt at hieroglyphics.
&nb
sp; “Reckon that’s Japanese? Chinese, maybe?” Harrison said, nodding toward the symbols.
“Don’t think it’s either,” Jack said. Jack could read basic Japanese, courtesy of a short-lived fling with a Japanese girl in college during which he’d taken several language courses so he could write her love letters.
There were numbers and math problems, arrows connecting one unintelligible collection of gibberish to another. The layers of paper were an inch thick—maybe two in some places—looked like they’d feel spongy to the touch, though Jack knew better than to touch anything.
Pieces of cut-up newspapers, like streamers, hung from the ceiling and swayed gently in the breeze from the doorway. They, too, were marked with strange symbols in red and blue Sharpie ink.
Harrison whistled softly. “If I was one of the forensics boys, I’d take early retirement before I’d tackle this!”
As soon as Jack reported in what he and Detective Harrison had found—no other suspects and no firearms of any kind—he set about the task of securing the scene for the forensics team. They liked to be called CSI but Jack blew that off, wouldn’t grant them the vanity of being the stars of their own TV show. While Harrison draped yellow-and-black Don’t-Cross-This-Line tape from the oak tree to a bush on the other side of the house, Jack sealed the front door with a strip down the door and across the jamb so you could tell if it’d been tampered with, and a big X from the top of the door frame to the opposite corner on the porch floor, securely sealing in the fruits of Jacob Dumas’s bull moose crazy.
As he knelt to stick the last piece of tape firmly to the bottom of the jamb, he glanced into the cardboard box Dumas’s sister had set on the porch beside the door. It held an old Ohio State University yearbook, yellowed report cards bound together with a rubber band, a team picture, a cup emblazoned with a Cincinnati Reds logo, pens, pencils, a small rebel flag and other miscellaneous keepsakes.
Jack gave it all a cursory glance, started to stand, and then his eyes snapped back to one of the items in the box with the force of a man yanked upward by a fully-extended bungee cord. He stared at it in rapt attention, unaware that he was shaking his head slowly in surprise and wonder.