His Ordinary Life

by Linda Winfree

  “I couldn’t sleep. Chuck went downstairs for a soda.” Tick turned back to the window. The curtains were open and the security lights picked out patterns in the rivulets coating the glass. “Figured if I sent Chris home, it would save the department his overtime.”

  His voice was strained, and dropping into the vinyl chair by Blake’s bed, Del eyed him. “You okay?”

  “No.” Bitterness lurked in the terse word.

  “What’s going on?”

  Tick leaned his head back, eyes closed. “It’s raining, and every damn time it rains, she’s in my head again. I’m tired of thinking about her. I’m tired of hurting. I figure if I find enough to do, I’ll forget.”

  The words’ impact shivered along Del’s nerves. This defeated man wasn’t his brother—his strong, invincible big brother who could handle everything. He leaned forward in the chair. “You want to talk about it?”

  “Won’t do any good.” Tick turned from the window with a dismissive gesture. “She made up her mind and I can’t change it. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

  Del reached out to tuck the blanket more securely around Blake. He murmured and shifted in his sleep, the dim light casting shadows on his face. “I know the feeling.”

  Making a sympathetic sound in his throat, Tick lifted an eyebrow. “You and Barb on the outs again?”

  “Not really on the outs. It’s just…we can’t wave a magic wand and make everything better again, you know?” Del crossed his ankle over his knee and rubbed at his thigh.

  “We’re a pair, aren’t we?” A rueful grin lifted the corner of Tick’s mouth. “Want to talk about it?”

  Oddly enough he did. He slumped in the chair, the reality sinking in again. He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Can you believe she brought a gun in the house while I was gone?”

  “Actually, yeah, I can.” A decidedly uncomfortable expression crossed Tick’s face.

  Del stared at him and blew out a long breath, trying to still the sudden anger gripping him as he remembered Barbara saying she’d been out on the range. “You knew?”

  Tick ran a hand over his nape. “She was bound and determined to learn how to shoot. Would you rather have anyone else teach her?”

  Biting back a reply, Del shook his head and looked away.

  Tick sighed. “She’s a strong woman, Del, you know that. She’s incredibly intelligent and a great mother besides. She loves those kids and we both know there was no way they’d ever have had access to that pistol.”

  “One mistake, Tick.” Del lifted his head and glared. “That’s all it takes.”

  “I know. And that’s one mistake Barb wouldn’t make.” Tick leaned against the wide ledge running under the window. “So, is this really about Barb and the gun? Or something else?”

  Del shrugged, tapping his thumb against his ankle.

  “When are you going to learn to let things go and stop beating yourself up?”

  “Lord, you sound like Barb.”

  “Daddy used to do the same thing.” Tick exhaled roughly and pulled a peppermint from his pocket. “Latch on to one thing, like laying Mama’s kitchen tile out of square, and worry himself crazy over it.”

  Del slid an irritated glance at his brother. “Your point?”

  “You still think he died blaming you for Will, for getting Barbara pregnant, don’t you?”

  Agony exploded in Del’s already-tight chest. He gripped the chair arms, wanting to push up, walk out, get away. He ground his teeth.

  “Del.” Tick’s voice vibrated with quiet intensity. “Damn it. He died blaming himself. First, for not keeping the gun cabinet locked and later for how he handled things with you.

  “He told me once that he didn’t lose one son the day Will died, he lost two. He knew you were slipping away and he didn’t know how to pull you back in, and then when Barb turned up pregnant, he blamed himself for not doing more to reach you. He was too busy beating himself up for that when he should have been trying to make things right between y’all. And then he died and it was too late. That’s why it makes me so damn mad to see you doing the same thing.”

  “If I’d been here, she wouldn’t have felt like she needed that goddamn gun. If I’d been here, maybe this”—Del indicated Blake’s sleeping form—“wouldn’t have happened.”

  Tick wrapped his hands around the ledge so tightly his knuckles cracked and glowed white. “Damn it, Del, you can’t live your whole life looking back. Why not look at what you have done? You’ve provided for your family, raised three of the best kids anybody’s ever seen, made sure Barbara got an education, not to mention how you stood by your son when he needed you the most. If you’ll take on the responsibility for all your screw-ups, why not the credit for everything you do right?”

  Del stared at him and bit back a groan. How was he supposed to argue with that? Dropping his head into his hands, he let loose the groan.

  “Looks like a serious realization.” Tick’s dry voice came somewhere over his head.

  “I hate it when you’re right,” he mumbled into his hands. “I’m an idiot.”

  Tick laughed. “Am I supposed to argue?”

  Del lifted his head. “I’m going to have to apologize to Barb, too. I gave her hell about that damn gun.”

  “So go back. Grovel. Beg if you have to. Whatever it takes.”

  He slumped lower. He remembered the fierce way she’d kissed him and his heart lightened. He had no doubt he’d be forgiven. Grinning, he shot a speculative glance at his brother. “Have you tried that? Begging and groveling?”

  “Yeah.” Tick stared at the floor, drumming one shoe against the tile. He vibrated with nervous energy—that foot tapping, hands shoved in his pockets, his shoulders set in a tense line. “It didn’t work.”

  Silence fell about them. Del watched Blake sleep. Relaxed in slumber, his face still had an innocence about it, despite the horror and stress he’d experienced recently. The door opened and Chuck slipped in with a canned soda in hand. With him was Mark Cook, his face weary and cynical, a direct contrast to Chuck’s open, earnest expression. Humor tugged at Del. Chuck sported a fresh haircut, his forehead exposed, and a distinct tan-line sat above his eyebrows, the result of wearing his favorite Bulldogs cap while working in the fields.

  “I thought you were staying with Barb and the girls until later?” Chuck asked, his voice hushed. He leaned against the wall and popped the top on his soda.

  Del shrugged and indicated Blake. “I wanted to check on him.”

  Tick lifted an eyebrow at Cook. “Cookie, you got something?”

  The husky investigator held aloft a manila folder, a satisfied grin playing around his mouth. “Monroe’s adoption records.”

  Excitement flared in Tick’s gaze. “Anything interesting?”

  “See for yourself.”

  Taking the folder, Tick moved to the door and stepped into the brightness of the hall. Curiosity getting the better of him, Del followed with Cookie. Tick had the folder open, flipping pages, reading rapidly. He whistled, long and low. “Holy hell.”

  Cookie hooked his thumbs in his belt. “Yeah. This kid has to have problems.”

  Tick turned another paper, a sick look pinching his mouth. “My God.”

  “What?” Del asked, and Tick glanced up from the file, jaw set.

  “He was removed from an abusive home at age four. The Monroes adopted him a few months later.” Tick shook his head, his gaze straying to the reports in front of him. “That’s all I can tell you. Trust me, that’s all you want to know.”

  Del squashed the spurt of sympathy. Whatever the kid had been through didn’t change or excuse what he’d done to Blake. “Was there a brother?”

  Tick ran a finger down the report. He nodded. “Yeah. One older brother. He was the one who made the report to Family and Children Services. He was sixteen. He wanted custody of Mason himself, but was also removed from the mother’s custody, sent to a foster home and then on to a group home. Wasn’t allowed any contact with him at
all after the adoption took place.”

  Cookie grunted. “So we’ve been looking for a kid when we should have been looking for an adult. He’d be what? Twenty-nine or thirty now? I ran the name, though, and there’s no Benjamin James registered with the Department of Motor Vehicles anywhere in the state.”

  “He could have changed his name,” Tick said, still reading. “Mason got a new one when the Monroes adopted him. They dropped the first name, called him by his middle name, added a new middle name to go with the new surname, and Bryan Mason James becomes Mason Landon Monroe.”

  “Wish we had a Social Security number.”

  “If he changed his name, there’ll be a record of it somewhere.” Tick glanced up at Cookie. “We’ll have to start with the group home, figure out where Benjamin went from there and begin checking court records for a petition to change his name.”

  Cookie shrugged, a cynical twist to his mouth. “If he bothered to change it legally. Fifty bucks and the right contacts, and you can be a whole new person overnight.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.” Tick’s cell phone chirped, and grimacing, he pulled it from his belt. “Calvert. Hey! You’re working late. Trying to clear that evidence backlog the GBI has all by yourself, huh?” He glanced at Cookie and mouthed “Williams”. Making noncommittal noises, he nodded, his expression intent. A slow smile crossed his face. “You’re kidding. Williams, we owe you big time for this. Thanks.”

  He broke the connection and clipped the phone back on his belt, still grinning. “Lucky for us Williams doesn’t have a personal life. Bless her hardworking little heart, we have a match on the prints from Cassie Howard’s belt.”

  Excitement pulsed in Del’s gut. Cookie appeared only marginally impressed. “So ol’ Benjie, or whatever the hell his name is now, has a record?”

  Tick shook his head. “Fingerprinted as part of the employment process at the high school.”

  “He’s a teacher?” Cookie’s eyebrows winged upward.

  Del’s stomach dropped. Oh, hell. Pieces began falling into place. Mason Monroe pushing Anna into a wall, an adult coming to her rescue. That same adult hanging around Barbara, asking about Blake. He lifted his gaze to Tick’s. “It’s Rawlings, isn’t it?”

  Tick nodded. “Yeah. And I’d be willing to bet wherever Rawlings is, Monroe isn’t far away.” He tucked the folder under his arm and tagged Cookie on the chest. “Come on. Let’s go pay Mr. Rawlings a visit.”

  “I’m going with you.” The words burst from Del before he’d even really thought them.

  Shaking his head, Tick looked at Del. “I can’t take you. It’s against department—”

  “I’ll stay in the car.” The intensity of Del’s anger made his voice tremble. He swallowed and tried to steady it. “They almost killed my son. I just want to be there.”

  A glance passed between Tick and Cookie, and finally Tick nodded, his expression grim. “Fine. But you stay in the car.”

  A nauseating blend of nerves and vengeance took up residence in Del’s stomach during the few minutes it took to let Chuck know they were leaving and arrange for hospital security to keep a close watch on Blake’s room.

  In the parking lot, Tick held out a hand for the keys, and Cookie grinned, indicating his empty palm. “Spit in it and it’ll fill up quicker.”

  With an irritable sigh, Tick jerked the passenger side door open. “You know, I’m the one with seniority now.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Cookie settled behind the steering wheel. Del glanced around the backseat. No seatbelts. Talk about an insurance settlement waiting to happen. “I’m the one driving.”

  As Cookie pulled the car onto the rain-slick street, Tick picked up the handset and radioed for backup, giving the location of Rawling’s home. “No lights, no sirens. I don’t want this guy to know we’re there until we’re coming through the door.” He glanced over his shoulder, the Plexiglass shield between the front and back seats muffling his voice slightly. “Shouldn’t you try to call Barb?”

  Del was already punching in the number. With the phone at his ear, he watched streetlights and familiar landmarks flash by. Rain streaked the window, the water and urgency giving the night a surreal feeling. His phone clicked a couple of times before a ring sounded in his hear. One ring, and the voice mail picked up. He sighed. Either she’d disabled the call waiting and was bashing him for being a male idiot with Melanie or she was connected to the internet. Lord, first thing tomorrow, he was setting them up with wireless. The message tone beeped.

  “Barb, it’s Del. Tick’s got a match on the prints. Brian Rawlings is Monroe’s brother. We’re on our way to his place now. As soon as you get this message, call me on my cell.” A pleading note had crept into his voice, and he grimaced. Begging and groveling. It hadn’t worked for Tick, but just maybe, it would work for him. “Baby, I’m sorry about earlier. I overreacted. I’m coming home as soon as this is all over.” He paused, aware of the knowing grins the two men in the front seat exchanged but ignoring them. “Barb, I want this to work.” He cleared his throat, trying to get rid of the lump there. “Be careful. I love you.”

  He killed the connection and pocketed the phone. Tick chuckled. “Did I say you were whipped?” He nudged Cookie’s side. “What’s below whipped?”

  Cookie turned his gaze away from the road long enough to smirk at him. “You.”

  Glaring, Tick slumped in his seat. Silence descended on the car, broken only by occasional bursts from the radio. Del stared out the window, long snakes of nerves slithering in his gut. Tick moved, pulled his gun from its holster, checked the magazine and replaced it.

  Cookie slowed to turn into an older residential area of town. In varying stages of restoration, the small houses sat close together with tiny yards. Another patrol car pulled in behind them. Killing the headlights, Cookie brought the car to a silent stop in front of a compact pink-stucco. He shifted into park, and Tick turned in his seat. “Stay here.”

  “He has to.” Cookie chuckled, unsnapping his holster. He squelched the car’s radio. “He’s locked in.”

  They exited the vehicle, closing the doors with quiet clicks. Two deputies climbed out of the other car, and with smooth precision, the four men moved toward the house. The backup officers went around the sides, and Cookie and Tick approached the front porch, their movements slow and measured.

  Gun drawn and crouched low, with Cookie using the brick post of the porch as cover, Tick reached over his head to knock on the door. Enclosed in silent safety, Del watched, his pulse pounding in his throat. He couldn’t hear anything outside the car, but he could see everything—the noiseless communication passing between his brother and his partner, the slow movement of Tick’s hand on the doorknob, the door swinging inward. His chest tightened. This—his being here, trapped in the car—hadn’t been a good idea. He watched his brother going into God-knew-what, and if something went wrong, there was absolutely nothing he could do. He couldn’t face that again.

  He tried not watching, but couldn’t keep his gaze from the front of the dark house as Tick and Cookie moved inside. The bright beam of a flashlight bounced inside, disappeared. Long minutes passed, filled only by the soft patter of raindrops on the roof and the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears.

  Tick appeared at the door, Cookie on his heels, and the deputies came around the side of the house. His face grim, Tick jogged down the steps and to the car. He opened the back door and stepped back to let Del climb out. “They’re not here.”

  Uneasy, Del passed his palm down his leg. “What now?”

  Reaching into the front seat, Tick grabbed his department cap and tugged it on. He went to the trunk and opened it, rummaging. He straightened, holding a roll of yellow tape. “We treat it like a crime scene. I’m closing it until we get a warrant to search the place.”

  “But where do you look now?” Frustration curled in him. He wanted this over immediately, wanted the bastards behind bars.

  Tick sighed, spinning th
e roll of tape on his index finger. “I don’t know. We’ve got to start looking into Rawlings’s background, find out where he’s lived before, who’s in his past, that sort of thing. That’ll give us a starting point.”

  “So they just get away.” His voice came out harsher than he intended.

  “No, but this isn’t Law and Order, Del. I can’t wrap up an investigation in an hour. I wish I could, but it doesn’t work like that. I’ve got open cases that are months old and one years old. Chris is putting out a BOLO for Rawlings’s car. But we don’t know when they left or where they might be going. I need a place to begin before I can look anywhere else.”

  Gritting his teeth, Del leaned against the car. Tick walked away, affixing the tape to the fencepost to begin a boundary around the house. The deputies stood on the sidewalk, one talking into the radio handset attached to his shoulder. Cookie held his cell phone to his ear, gesturing with one hand.

  Their studied patience grated. The rain had stopped once more, only a damp mist hovering under the streetlights. Tapping his fingers on the car door, Del stared at the wet asphalt. This was like watching a hurricane approach, wondering which city would take the hit, trying to figure the risk factors, wondering where the biggest insurance payouts would be.

  Risk factors. Eyes narrowed, Del lifted his head and stared at the house. As far as they knew, Rawlings didn’t know they were on to him yet. He knew they were on to Monroe. He’d want to get away, to put as much time and distance between him and Monroe and Chandler County as possible before those prints matched or the connection between him and Monroe clicked. He’d want to keep up the appearance, maintain the charade, minimize the risk of being found out.

  Maintain the charade. He needed to look like a regular guy, like the responsible teacher everyone thought he was. And he’d need to know if that appearance was compromised.

  Holy hell.

  He jerked upright. “Tick!”

  His brother spun, the edge of the yellow tape fluttering from his hand. “What?”

  “We have to get to my house.”

  Tick frowned. “Why?”