Montana Rogue

by Jessica Douglass

  “Good bears,” Jack said, his voice steady, firm. “Nice bears.”

  “What are you doing?” Courtney hissed.

  “Letting mama know we’re human. I’m hoping she has an aversion to the species.” Very slowly, Jack stepped in front of her, putting himself between her and the bears. Courtney’s throat tightened. Her eyes stung. She had the all but ridiculous urge to throw her arms around him. But she didn’t move.

  The she-bear seemed wary now, her dark eyes watchful. Jack continued talking, his attention on the bears, his words meant for Courtney.

  “Listen to me,” he said. “There’s a ridge fifty yards behind you. I want you to back up—real slow. Get down those rocks any way you can.”

  “What about you?”

  “Just do as I say.” Jack spread his arms, making himself as formidable looking as possible to the four hundred pound bear, and doing his best to block the animal’s view of Courtney’s retreat.

  She limped backward, her every instinct screaming at her to turn, to run. She did neither. The cub was rolling in the snow now some forty yards to her left, but the mother bear remained still as a statue, her eyes fixed on Jack.

  “Keep moving,” he said.

  “Come with me,” she pleaded.

  “Go.”

  She reached the lip of the ridge. She started to call out to Jack, then everything seemed to happen at once.

  The bear let out a hideous roar and charged. For her size, the animal moved at an astonishing speed, covering the eighty yard distance in seconds. With no chance for escape, Jack dropped and rolled. Courtney screamed again, certain he was going to be devoured before her very eyes. But even as she screamed, she was stumbling forward, grabbing up the Beretta from where Jack had tossed it earlier. Releasing the safety, she fired the gun skyward once, twice. The bear didn’t slow, trampling over Jack with bone-shattering force. His head snapped back, colliding with a sickening thud against the icy ground.

  Courtney fired again. Rearing up on her hind legs, the bear let out a blood-chilling roar. Then just that swiftly, she dropped to all fours, swatted her cub on the rump and disappeared into the trees.

  Allowing herself no time to think, Courtney rushed to Jack’s side and dropped to her knees beside him. He was still as death. She whispered his name.

  Nothing.

  She put her hand on his chest, a shudder of relief coursing through her as she felt the pulsing beat of his heart.

  Quickly, she checked him for injuries. The sleeping bag furled on his back had been shredded straight down the middle by the she-bear’s claws, but the only injury she could find was a bloody gash on the side of Jack’s head. A gash just inches from the ugly bruise she herself had given him back at the cabin.

  Again she tried to rouse him. Again he did not respond.

  Swiftly, she unfurled the sleeping bag. Using it as a travois, she dragged Jack over to the fire, then swiftly bundled him up inside the bag. He showed not the slightest hint of consciousness. Her mind leaped to skull fractures and hemorrhage.

  Stifling a sob, Courtney tended the fire, then snuggled into the bag beside him. Under any other circumstances, such proximity to Jack Sullivan would have had her emotions on overload—confusion, desire, anxiety, excitement, suspicion, awe. Now there was only one—fear. Fear that he was going to die.

  Darkness settled over the forest. Overhead, the trees hid the stars from her view. The only light was the bright orange glow of the fire. The only sound, the only sound that mattered, was the deep, labored breathing of the man in her arms. She held him close, eyes burning, praying to God she would still hear that sound come morning.

  Chapter 8

  Jack was dreaming. He knew it was a dream, because he was back in L.A. Back in L.A. on a hot and ugly August night eight months ago. But knowing it was a dream didn’t give him the power to stop it. Knowing it was a dream didn’t give him the power to change what happened that cursed night.

  It had been a rare night off for he and Emmett Washington, his partner of five years. Normally they worked second shift out of homicide, special services division, often undercover. Their specialty—gang activity. Four nights a month they opted to spend their free time at a junior high in east L.A., where a local minister kept the gym open all night. Kids from the neighborhood could come by and shoot hoops instead of shooting dope or getting into other kinds of trouble. The program had gotten high marks from various civic groups. The crime rate in the surrounding area had shown a small, but real drop. Gang recruitment had been cut nearly in half.

  He and Emmett called it quits just past 3:00 a.m. “I’ve decided,” Jack said, staggering off the court and wiping at his sweat-soaked face with the sleeve of his faded rock star T-shirt, “that three hours of nonstop basketball is my limit.” The kids, a mix of white, Hispanic, black and Asian, were still going like Energizer bunnies up and down the court.

  “Except we’ve been playin’ six hours,” Emmett gasped, hunching over beside Jack, and sucking wind big-time, as the kids would say. A tall, lean no-nonsense African-American, Emmett dabbed at the perspiration on his brow with the kerchief he’d pulled out of the pocket of his gym shorts.

  “Which explains why I’ve been a dead man for the past three hours,” Jack said.

  Emmett chuckled. “It’s hell to get old, isn’t it?”

  “You’re as young as you feel.” Jack groaned, straightening his aching body. “Which means Willard Scott should be wishing me happy birthday any day now.”

  “Hey, you guys ain’t quittin’, are ya?” The question came from a tall, rangy black kid who dribbled the basketball he was handling right up to the out-of-bounds line. He didn’t cross the line; he just stood there, bouncing the ball and waiting for an answer.

  “We’re out of here, Jason,” Emmett said.

  “But it’s early.”

  When howls of protests went up from Jason’s teammates for him holding up the game, Jason passed off the ball and signaled for another kid to take his place on the court. Jason stepped between Emmett and Jack on the sidelines. “You’re comin’ again soon, ain’t ya, Jack, Emmett?”

  Jack nodded. Jason was one of his favorites. One of eight kids, he was third oldest in a family where the father had walked out when Jason was seven. His mom worked two jobs to keep food on the table. His two older brothers had already made wrongheaded choices and were doing hard time in prison. Jason was determined not to join them. Jack and Emmett were determined to do everything they could to see to it that he didn’t. “Next week,” Jack told him. “Not sure which night yet.”

  Jason grinned. “Good. You guys are better than most of the old—I mean, the older guys who come in here. You shoot a fair hoop, you know, for cops.”

  Emmett chuckled. “Thanks.”

  Jason stepped closer to Jack, his brown eyes suddenly serious, his voice low. “I want to thank you for gettin’ me that job, Jack. Even if it is flipping burgers.”

  “Hey, everybody’s gotta start somewhere. My first job was filling vending machines.” His voice was wry. “A cop I know figured I’d have a real talent for it, since I was trying to knock one over the night he and I met.”

  Jason’s eyes widened. “You got arrested?”

  “Nope. I was damned lucky.”

  “I’m glad for the job, Jack. Really. Even if every time I see a pickle now, I wanna puke. It’s good spendin’ money. And I don’t have to watch my back, if you know what I mean. Thanks.”

  “I got you the interview. You got yourself the job, Jason. It was all up to you once you walked through the door.”

  Jason beamed and headed back to his teammates. Emmett gave Jack a “well-done” clap on the shoulder, then the two of them started toward the locker room.

  “You boys look a little done in.” The observation came from a diminutive, gray-haired gentleman rising off his seat in the front row of the bleachers. He ambled toward them, grinning.

  “Reverend Mike, how come we never see you with a basketball in you
r hands?” Emmett asked.

  “Somebody’s got to be able to call 911 for the two of you.” His intelligent gray blue eyes sparkled with humor and genuine affection.

  Jack and Emmett scowled good-naturedly.

  Mike Hawkins sobered. “I’ve told you before, but I’ll tell you again. You two make a helluva difference here with these kids. They get to see for themselves that cops are people with real lives and families. Which reminds me—” he glanced at Emmett “—how’s that pretty little wife of yours doing? That baby’s due any day now, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t say that!” Emmett protested. “It’s still three weeks. But I’ve got my pager—” he patted the tiny black box on his hip “—just in case.”

  “Thanks a lot, Mike,” Jack grumbled. “Now I’m going to have to run through that whole Lamaze thing with him again. He’s so afraid he’s going to forget something. Like Loretta.”

  “I just want to be prepared. Is there anything wrong with that?”

  “Yeah,” Jack said. “You’re going to make her obstetrician look bad.” To the preacher, he said, “We’ll be by your office after we shower, okay?”

  “Fine. I’ll be there.”

  They trusted everything to the locker room except their weapons. The guns were in a safe in Mike’s office.

  Ten minutes later they were standing outside the gym. “My abused muscles notwithstanding, I think we put in a good night’s work, bro,” Jack said.

  Emmett nodded. “The best.”

  Jack smiled. They were a good team, he and Emmett. He couldn’t have asked for a better partner, a better friend. He stood on the steps, his gaze shifting casually up and down the two-lane street that ran in front of the school. No traffic. The only car for two blocks was Jack’s own Chevy Blazer parked across the street under the light. He knew Emmett was making the same offhanded survey. It wasn’t that they were expecting trouble. It was just second nature for a cop to be watchful, alert.

  Jack fiddled with the lapel of his navy sport coat, wishing he could shed the blasted thing in favor of the white T-shirt beneath it. It was too hot for the jacket. But that would make his shoulder holster a little too conspicuous. A cop was a cop twenty-four hours a day. They headed across the street.

  “You gonna teach that kid of yours to be as lousy at basketball as you are?” Jack asked, as he unlocked the Blazer and tossed his gym bag into the back seat.

  “Hey, it’s you white guys that can’t jump, remember?” Emmett climbed in on the passenger side.

  “Except that I out rebounded you six to one tonight, chump.”

  “I believe that was the Shaquille body double you had on your team.”

  Jack chuckled. “Fourteen years old and six foot ten. If he ever gets coordinated, he’s going to make both of us look like we’re sittin’ on our a—” Jack’s eyes narrowed. “What do you make of that?” He pointed across the street toward a darkened cul de sac.

  A man was weaving drunkenly toward the dead-end alley.

  “Just some wino with a snootful,” Emmett said.

  “Best sit here and watch him a minute,” Jack said.

  Emmett nodded.

  Jack reached over and punched open the glove compartment, retrieving a package of Ding Dongs. He offered one to Emmett.

  “I have more respect for my body, bro.”

  “Coward.”

  Emmett snorted. “Loretta’s right. You need to get married, Jack. Have a home-cooked meal once in a while.”

  “I been married.” Jack pitched the cellophane wrapper into the back seat and munched the chocolate snack cake. “She couldn’t cook.”

  “I mean to the right woman. Wendy wasn’t cut out to be a cop’s wife.”

  Jack’s jaw clenched. “Drop it, okay?” The night had been pleasant. He didn’t want to spoil it.

  “Sorry, man. It’s just that I’m so happy with Loretta. I can’t imagine my life without her. You need a woman like that.”

  Jack’s mind flashed on sun-gold hair and emerald-green eyes. “I had my chance. I blew it.”

  “The one you told me about? The one with the Fortune 500 spoon in her mouth.”

  “I was a world-class jerk.”

  “That was then, this is now. She available?”

  “She’s divorced. Other than that, I have no idea.”

  “So give her a call.”

  “Look, Emmett,” Jack said, trying to keep his voice even, “I didn’t just burn the bridge with this lady. I used C-4 on the pilings. If she were in a particularly magnanimous frame of mind, Courtney might rank me right above the plague. If not, the plague wins.”

  Emmett twisted in the seat. “I’m not trying to tell you how to run your life, Jack.” He shook his head. “Not too much anyway. It’s just that sometimes I think about that tattoo on your arm.”

  “What about it?”

  “The lone wolf. Don’t you see? It ain’t natural. Wolves are sociable animals. You need a mate, Jack. The kind of woman to build a life with. Loretta worries about you. She’s always raggin’ me to make sure you eat right, get enough sleep. I’m tired of baby-sittin’, man.”

  Jack rolled his eyes. “How about a compromise? A one-night stand—maybe two.”

  “That would be a good start.”

  They both laughed.

  Jack glanced toward the alley. The wino had not reemerged. “Looks like our friend has bedded down for the night.” He turned the key in the ignition. “Let’s hit it. I—”

  The man staggered out of the darkness, his drunken movements exaggerated. He was reaching out a beseeching hand, though there was no one in front of him. “Help me!”

  Jack muttered an expletive. “So much for some quality sleep.” He switched off the engine.

  “Duty calls, bro.”

  Jack was out the door.

  “Should I call for backup?” Emmett hollered after him.

  “For what? To collar a wino?”

  Emmett followed Jack. Instinctively they checked their guns as they approached the darkened alley. The glow from the streetlight did not extend beyond the first few yards of the cul de sac. Jack felt the hairs on the nape of his neck prickle. “Something’s not right here. Keep an eye out.” They reached the alley.

  “Damn, I should’ve called for that backup,” Emmett muttered. “The captain’s been on our backs enough lately about hot doggin’.”

  Jack got down on one knee beside the groggy transient. “You okay, guy?” Jack breathed through his mouth. The man reeked of urine and vomit.

  “He beat me up.” The man’s words slurred together. “The little jerk beat me up. Stole my money.”

  “You don’t look beat-up, pops. You look drunk.”

  “I’m tellin’ ya, the punk took over a hundred dollars cash money.”

  “And where’d you get that kind of change?”

  “Got it workin’ for a grocer. Korean fella.”

  “Uh-huh.” He looked at Emmett. “The last time this guy had a hundred dollars, it was in a crap game. And he probably lost it on the next roll.” To the transient, he said, “What did the guy look like? The one that took your money.”

  “Wasn’t no guy. Ain’t you listenin’? Was a kid. A little kid. Looked to be maybe ten years old. He’s still in the alley. Was lying in wait like some jungle cat. Jumped me, I tell ya.”

  Jack and Emmett exchanged dubious glances.

  From out of the darkness, a garbage can lid clanged. Jack and Emmett drew their guns in one motion. “Freeze! Police!” Emmett shouted.

  Jack took the right side of the alley, Emmett the left. Beneath his sneakers, broken glass crunched. Jack continued to breathe through his mouth, repulsed by the stench of overturned garbage rotting in the summer heat. “Come out of there,” Jack ordered. “Hands where I can see ‘em. And they’d better be empty.”

  Jack pulled a penlight from his pocket and shone it toward the alley’s end. No doors. No windows. No way out.

  “Give it up!” Jack said. “You’ve got nowhere
to go.”

  “Jack!” Emmett signaled toward the corner nearest him, where three huge crates were stacked. A rat skittered out. Jack started to relax, then reacted to Emmett’s shout. “Freeze. Now!”

  From out of the shadows came a tiny waif of a boy. Sandy hair, wide-eyed, scared to death. “I didn’t mean no harm,” he whimpered. “Honest. Please don’t tell my mom.”

  “Get out here. Now.”

  The boy hung back in the shadows. “That man tried to grab me. Pull me back here. Do things to me.” The boy began to sob. Jack doubted he was more than twelve.

  “He’s lyin’!” The wino cursed. “The brat tried to—”

  “Shut up and get back! We’ll get both sides of this later.” To the boy he said, “What are you doing out here?” Jack had never seen him before. He was not one of the kids that came to the gym.

  “My mom works nights. I got scared. I started to go down to where she works. It’s a liquor store. Fredo’s.”

  Jack had heard of it.

  “I go there sometimes and she lets me sleep in the back room. And we walk home together in the morning.”

  “We’ve got to take you downtown. Get this mess sorted out. We’ll send a car for your mom, okay?”

  “Please, she’ll skin me if I get in trouble.” Tears streamed down his face.

  Jack uncocked his gun. Emmett reholstered his.

  A hundred pounds. Cherub-faced. Wide-eyed, scared to death.

  “I should have known better than to tell Loretta I’d be back before dawn.” Emmett took a step toward the boy.

  Everything happened in slow motion. From nowhere, the boy had a gun in his hand, both arms extended. No! No! Jack’s mind screamed the words, as he brought his own weapon to bear. But he hesitated. One second. One eternal second. How could he shoot a child?

  The child fired his gun.

  Emmett cried out, doubled over. No! He collapsed, falling on his left side, his face contorted in agony.

  Real time again. Jack tackled the boy, wrestled him to the ground. In a blind rage he handcuffed him. All the while, the kid screamed obscenities—against cops, against the wino, against the world. Then, when he was cuffed and subdued, he was just a kid again. Sobbing, sobbing for his mommy.