Last Shot

by Jay Nadal

  Cade couldn’t count the days since Discount Liquor. They blended together into a mass, a fog. He was still in that fog. There was no direction anymore. He was wandering, not patrolling. Waiting.

  He had taken to drinking, away from Sunnyside and away from his home. Drinking in places where you didn’t go unless you had been drinking there since you were sixteen. The kind of places where random violence was expected, and he had obliged. There had been a few times where he had fled the scene of a fight seconds ahead of the wailing sirens of Houston’s finest.

  It didn’t matter anymore. He went to work bruised, the evidence of violence on his face. And no one mentioned it. Cruz had taken him aside, concerned. Cade hadn’t had any answers for him. What could he say?

  “Yes, Sarge. I got this driving drunk to a bar in Sugarland and picking a fight with some piece of shit.”

  He had just stood there, dumb, staring at Cruz and not able to bring a single word to his lips. Then Bryant’s hand had slammed onto his shoulder.

  “Sarge. We just ran into some gangbangers getting high at Sunnyside Park. One of them caught Tommy in the face with a two-by-four off a construction site. They got away when we went to help him.”

  Cruz had looked sharply at the two men and allowed them to go on their way. He must have known, but he turned a blind eye. Bryant was popular, and he had a good arrest record, too. It was easier to ignore it.

  The patrol car’s lights picked out the pimped-out cars which guys and girls congregated around outside the housing projects. Bryant’s face went still as brave young men grabbed their crotches and shouted abuse as the car cruised past.

  Nothing they could do against so many. Nothing they could do within the law, anyway.

  Cade had stopped driving, letting his partner take the wheel. He was too edgy, twitching at every sound. He found himself wanting to take in everything around him, unwilling to allow his attention to become focused purely on the road. The clasp over his gun was permanently undone, one hand frequently touching the butt of the gun.

  “Hey, you remember that guy down near King’s Row?” Bryant asked.

  Cade did remember. He suppressed the sudden hot flush of guilt.

  “Man, that felt good, didn’t it? Imagine getting lucky enough to just stumble across a scumbag like that and dole out some justice. Hmm mmm. Man.”

  The man had been a known rapist and gang member who had escaped prosecution thanks to witness intimidation. Bryant and Cade had been lucky enough to come across him without his homeboys around him.

  Bryant had pulled up the car and got out, Cade behind him.

  “Yo, brother. What’s going down?” Bryant had greeted him effusively.

  “I don’t know you, bro,” the man replied warily.

  He had one hand hidden inside the pocket of a baggy hoodie he wore.

  “But I know you. I swear… You take your hand out of that pocket and I’m going to blow your motherfuckin’ brains out. Understand?” Bryant’s transformation from clowning to deadly was instant and terrifying. The huge man stood above six five and must have weighed two-sixty without an ounce of fat on him. He had shark’s eyes, black and cold.

  The man froze. His eyes darted from Cade to Bryant as the two cops moved to take positions on either side of him.

  “Hey, man. I ain’t done nothing You got the wrong dude, I’m telling y’all.”

  “So, you ain’t Deshawn Rondell?” Bryant asked quietly. “You ain’t the Big D. You ain’t a motherfuckin’ rapist?” This last was a roar that made Rondell jump.

  Bryant had his nightstick out now. Rondell ran the moment he saw it. They gave chase, vaulting ditches and stumbling over crumbling concrete that used to be a parking lot, a church, or who knew what. It was just dead now, broken ground.

  They dodged around trees until Rondell practically ran into Cade. He bounced off and was on the ground when Bryant reached him, hauling him up. Cade’s leg was on fire. He could barely walk. Bryant pinned Rondell’s arms behind him and shoved him forward.

  “Firs’ shot to you. Enjoy, brother,” Bryant said with a devious smile.

  With almost no hesitation, Cade hit Rondell hard in the face.

  When the two cops got back to the car, Cade wanted to throw up as a rising feeling of nausea lurched from his stomach. His legs were empty, and the muscles that had worked so hard only seconds ago now struggled to hold his weight. He was limping heavily, the pain burning from his thigh up to his hip and stabbing him with every movement of his leg.

  “Tell you what, brother,” Bryant had said, starting up the car. “Next time, I think you should stay with the car. I’ll bring the no-good son of a bitch to you.”

  Cade didn’t know which of the two of them he hated more.

  13

  The radio squawked to life. Cade let Bryant pick it up.

  “This is Delta one three. Let me hear you, brother.”

  “Ten-sixteen at 1992 Sparrow Street. Can you attend?”

  “Ten-four. We are en route,” Bryant replied. “Whoohooo. Now that’s what I’m talking ’bout. Back to the old King’s Row. We are going to have some action tonight.”

  He floored the gas, then hit the lights. The stillness of the night was torn apart by the blaring siren.

  Sparrow Street was silent. Another squad car was pulling onto the street from the opposite end. As Cade and Bryant pulled up to the curb, Cade saw the other cops waiting on the sidewalk for them. It was Martinez and Rice, two of Bryant’s crew.

  “That’s the one, right there.” Rice pointed at a single-story house. There were no lights on in the house and no sign of movement.

  “You two head round the back,” Bryant ordered as he walked across the grass verge that was all the sidewalk this street had.

  He drew his gun and cautiously approached the open front door, keeping to one side of it. Cade took the other, also drawing his weapon. His heart was racing.

  This scenario had played out a hundred times before, and it never ended well. Domestic disturbance followed by empty and unlocked house usually meant a dead or raped woman—sometimes both.

  Bryant shined his torch in through the front door. Both men crouched on either side of the much-abused front porch steps. Cade knelt and played the torch about under the house. Nothing. Not even a stray dog.

  “HPD. Is there anyone in there?” Bryant called. A light came on in the house next door, then another two doors down. “This is Officer Bryant. If there’s anyone in there who needs help, just call out. We’re responding to a domestic disturbance at this property. Please yell out if you need help.”

  No answer. They cautiously mounted the steps, guns leading the way, torches held above the barrel to provide a clearly lit field of fire. Cade went in first. The hallway was trashed. There was a strong smell of garbage, as though someone had upended a ripe trash can.

  A door to the left led to a bathroom. The door hung off its hinges. The toilet had been wrenched off its pedestal, and a pool of water was steadily spreading on the bathroom floor.

  “Jesus H.,” Bryant exclaimed in a whisper. “Someone did a real number here.”

  Shining his torch down the straight hallway into the kitchen, they could see the source of the smell. A garbage bag was torn open, the contents scattered all over the floor. Then Cade heard the moaning.

  There were two more doors, one on either side of the hallways before the kitchen. They approached, then stopped, listening. The moaning was coming from the door on the right, Cade’s side of the hall.

  In one fluid movement, he kicked the door open and swung torch and gun into the room. The beam found the room’s only occupant almost instantly. She lay on the floor of a bedroom. She wore a cotton skirt and nothing else. Her face was a mass of bloody bruises. Cade was at her side in an instant.

  “Ma’am. Houston PD. Can you hear me?”

  Her right eye was swollen completely shut. Her lips were torn and swollen, too. They moved slightly, a whisper coming from between them. Cade bent hi
s head low to try and catch her words, but the damage done to her face was too much to distinguish anything. Bryant stood in the doorway.

  “Dispatch. Ambulance required to 1992 Sparrow Street. One female, badly beaten, multiple injuries. Four uniformed officers on site.”

  The closet door behind him suddenly opened, and a man was dashing for the kitchen. Bryant stomped after him. Cade heard shouts from the back of the house as the man ran straight into Martinez and Rice.

  It was a distant sound. He had checked the woman’s airways and moved her into the recovery position, covering her with a blanket from the bed. His eyes scanned the room.

  Next to him was a dressing table with a mismatched mirror sitting atop it. Pictures were wedged around the frame of the mirror. As Cade played his torch over the pictures, he saw the same face over and over again.

  Was that her? The woman on the floor? He stood. The photograph had familiarity. She looked exactly like Alexa. His mouth went dry.

  They were the kind of pictures you wouldn’t look at twice because they were of events only significant to the people in them. Parties, nights out, pictures of girls crowding together to get into the shot, holding up drinks and making faces. And in all of them, Alexa.

  No, not Alexa.

  Alexa was dead.

  But this woman…This woman could have been her sister. She appeared happy. In the pictures, she was sharing happier times. She may have lived in a bad Houston neighborhood, in a shitty house. Who knew what she did for a living. But in those pictures, she was happy. And now…

  Rice appeared in the doorway, shoving the cuffed man in front of him. The guy had a glazed veil to his eyes, and a familiar stench about him. Like permanent marker. His white T-shirt was ripped and covered in blood.

  Cade stared at him. The rage that had been bubbling for so long now was in full flood, like a volcanic eruption. He could barely trust himself to speak.

  “I’ll take him to the car,” he said woodenly.

  Rice started to say something, but stopped at one cold stare from Cade.

  “Hey, man, whatever you say,” Rice said.

  They passed back through the devastation that had once been a home. Their feet splashed through the water now flooding out of the bathroom. They walked into the front yard.

  Cade didn’t know what he was going to do. He had his keys out. He was going to take off the cuffs. Wasn’t he? He could see the path stretching before him. Was he really going to do this?

  He could hear one of the others following him out of the house as he stopped, keys in hand. The man stopped, too, shambling to a halt, and looked back over his shoulder. Footsteps on the porch steps. Soft. Not police boots, but sneakers.

  Cade spun around, gun coming up. The man saw the shock register on Cade’s face before he could hide it. A small smile played on his lips as he stormed forward. Bryant must have missed this guy in the living room.

  He had a knife and was thrusting it upward to slide under Cade’s ribs. Cade fired once. The other man rammed into him, both of them falling to the ground. Cade struck, gun in hand, catching the cuffed man on the side of the head and knocking him aside.

  “Fuckin’ po-lice. Bitch had it comin’,” the man with the knife spat.

  His violence was in his words. Hatred screwed up his face. Like twisting a finger in a bullet hole, he reminded Cade of his pains, his worst memories, the times he’d felt helpless and let others down.

  He kicked out furiously at Cade and caught a lucky blow to his crotch. Every kick felt like a nail bomb exploding in his innards. Cade fought to get back to his feet, but the man was faster. His cuffed accomplice joined in, stamping Cade around the torso.

  Every muscle had seized up. His body struggled to recover, to repair the damage. Unable to move with any grace, his movements were jerky, his breath hard and squeezed. The man kicked again, teeth bared, and caught Cade in the face, snapping his head back. He raised his foot again to stamp down hard on Cade’s face, followed swiftly by a volley of punches. From which man, Cade couldn’t make out, but fists and feet rained down on him with ferocity and speed.

  Pain seared through his face sharper than a branding iron, his mind conceding to the torment, unable to bring a thought to completion as he rolled onto his back. The pain increased in waves, small lulls giving false hope of an end.

  An elbow came crushing down on Cade. His mind screamed out as the pain drove through his back. Every thought he just had became confused as the burning pain licked up his back like scorching fire.

  Fear fueled his panic as he fought to keep hold of his gun as he writhed on the ground, desperate to put some space between himself and the assailant. Cade fired five shots from point blank range, unsure if any would connect. The rounds tore through the man’s groin and stomach, hurling him back on the grass. Smoke rose from the wounds.

  Cade let the gun fall from his hand and lay staring up at the night sky, stars blanked out by the streetlights.

  He couldn’t recall how long the attack had gone on for.

  Seconds?

  Minutes?

  He stared up at the dark void.

  14

  The shadows of the beating were on Cade’s skin and on his heart.

  He tried to recall what had led to this. How was it he was here and in this state? The foggy thoughts cleared.

  That night broke something inside of him, something that would remain long after his skin had healed. It was a sadness in his eyes, a heaviness, an unyielding sorrow that slowed his speech and robbed him of his once-easy smile.

  Cade rose unsteadily to his feet. It was against doctors’ orders to be moving right now, but he needed the bathroom, and he’d have to have both legs broken before he’d ask for assistance with that.

  He was startled to see a face glaring at him that was more purple than any other color. On impulse, he reached for his gun, which was absent, of course. He felt foolish in his hospital gown.

  It was only a mirror and his own beleaguered features staring back through swollen eyes. His skin that wasn’t purple was simply gray. His nose was a new shape entirely, and his head was lumpy and misshapen.

  Cade lay back on the hospital bed, eyes fixed on the window, until Rissa walked in. He turned, knowing already what face she would make, and she did. Her eyes had that wide stare, her bottom lip trembled, and she hurried to sit by his bedside.

  Her gaze roamed from one injury to another, taking in the gore of a man she’d never expected to see like this. Cade could see the conflict, her wanting to be strong for him and the raw need to reach out welling up.

  “It’s all right,” he croaked, “you can cry.” It was all the permission she needed.

  15

  The room was sterile. The windows were covered by thin roller blinds, which let a soft glow of daylight through. They shut out the view outside and tempered any hard edges of sunlight. The room was air-conditioned. The carpet was gray and short, and the woman who led the group was bland. That was the best word Cade could think of to describe her.

  She smiled benignly and mouthed platitudes that others around the circle nodded to and agreed with. Her face was a mask. He wondered if the others in the room were thinking the same thing. He didn’t know any of them. None were from his precinct.

  “Thomas.” The woman turned her banal smile onto Cade. Eyes shifted to him. It had been an hour, and he hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t made a sound.

  “Could you tell us about the incident where you were forced to use your firearm?” she said, reserved optimism in her voice.

  “We were responding to a domestic disturbance. Myself and my partner. Two other officers showed up, too. A woman had been badly beaten by one or possibly two men. Maybe raped, as well. She was found in a state of undress. One of them jumped me, and I shot him. The other tried to resist arrest, and I shot him. Both dead.”

  He had recited the incident so often that he could reel off the salient facts without even thinking about it. His expression never changed. No emoti
on entered his voice.

  “And how did you feel about that?” The smile had been joined by a creased forehead, which was what she did when she was listening. She had a clipboard on her knee and was making notes as Cade spoke, ticking something.

  Cade felt a sudden overwhelming sense of claustrophobia. The room was becoming smaller. The air was tainted with the breath of the other men and that robotic woman. He didn’t want to breathe it in. The thought made him sick.

  He needed to get out of his chair and get out of the building. Take in some fresh air. He forced his hands to his knees, forced them into position with all his strength, pressing down as hard as he could.

  It had been three days since the Sparrow Street shooting, since he had killed two men, one of whom had been in cuffs. He was on sick leave, pending a psych evaluation and completion of the HPD’s Post-Trauma Therapy course.

  Did it make him a monster that killing two human beings had been easier for him than group therapy exercises led by a compassionate professional who just wanted to help? What was he turning into?

  The truth was that the killing had been easy. The rage had made it easy. All he had to do was let it out. He might have killed both men with his bare hands if given the chance, except that would have been a damn sight harder to explain in the report.

  Shots meant a police officer defending himself. Beating a perp to a bloody pulp meant police brutality. Jesus fucking Christ. Whose side were HPD on? The cops who risked their lives on a daily basis or the pathetic excuses for human beings who raped, murdered, and abused?

  He could feel the anger rising in him and drew a deep breath. He became aware that the woman, Angela, was talking to him.

  “Thomas, I know it’s hard. But it really is important for you to externalize those feelings. Say it aloud. I’m sure that everyone here will agree that it helps to just talk.”