“Done!” I shouted when I had installed those last screws. I began picking my way toward the ladder, trying not to dent the new green metal roofing panels. I was almost there when I caught movement from the parking area and looked up to see a gang of people piling out of a Suburban. I stopped and counted. In addition to the apparent mother and father, there were five children—two boys and three girls—ranging from the ages of four to seventeen. I waved when they looked in my direction. “Welcome!”
They waved back as they gathered up a picnic basket, a blanket, and folding chairs. I smiled as I descended the ladder. My hard work was paying off. I paused and corrected myself—our hard work was paying off.
Susan and Grace had come along and helped out when they could, which had been often. There had been a few times when Susan was forced to go to work, so Grace would have to stay with my mom or Susan’s mom. While I would’ve loved to have her along, she was four months shy of three and needed my undivided attention. Susan and I were raising her to be a tough one, but there were a million and one ways to die in the swamps, and I wasn’t taking any chances where she was concerned. I’d already suffered such a loss in my thirty-six years of existence, and I didn’t think I could survive another one.
The family reached us just as I made it to the bottom of the ladder.
“We saw a sign in town that said the park was open for hiking and camping,” said the wife. “Is it okay if we go for a picnic?”
I was beaming. “Absolutely! It’s beautiful. You might even see an alligator or three.”
One of the boys, who had seemed sullen up to this point, quickly looked up.
“Really?” he asked eagerly.
I nodded. “I can almost guarantee you’ll see one. Just walk easy and don’t talk. You’ll be surprised what you can see when you make your way quietly through the swamps.”
“Thank you!” the boy said, digging for a cell phone. “If only I can get a picture of one!”
The dad gave me a nod of approval and the family headed off down the trail. I frowned as I looked after them. There would be no forgetting the tragedy that had unfolded down that trail two months ago, but it was good to see people enjoying the area again.
Susan walked up to me and took my hand. “You’ve done a great job with this place.”
“So have you,” I said, squeezing her hand in appreciation. “You’ve been a big help.”
“When I’m able to get away from work,” she said with a sigh. “It seems like the job is getting more and more demanding every day. The town won’t stop growing. It’s like a baby—it grows by the minute.”
As police chief, Susan’s job never ended. She was often working nights or weekends to back-up her patrol officers, cover a shift, or to address concerns of the townspeople. Me, I was the chief of detectives, and mostly worked Monday through Fridays unless I was hot on the trail of a suspect. Of course, when I was working a homicide or other crime of violence, there was no such thing as a weekend, a holiday, or a vacation.
I began loading up my tools in my truck while Susan gathered up Grace’s toys. Just in case she might be called to work, Susan had driven to the park in her department Tahoe, while I had taken my personal truck.
“I’ll pick up some burgers for lunch on the way home,” Susan said when Grace and the dogs were loaded in her vehicle. “We’ve got leftover spaghetti for dinner.”
I only nodded as I watched her walk away. Although we were reaching the end of January, the temperature had remained in the mid-seventies for the weekend and Susan’s legs were looking sexy in her short shorts. As though feeling my eyes on her, she stopped and turned. “Put your tongue back in your mouth and load up your shit, mister man,” she said playfully. “I’m hungry and I don’t want to eat without you.”
“Shit!” Grace said from the backseat. “I’m hungry!”
Susan clasped a hand over her mouth and stared in horror at our daughter. “No, Gracie, don’t say that!” she said once she’d recovered.
Grace only laughed. I was laughing, too, and didn’t stop until Susan’s Tahoe was out of sight.
CHAPTER 3
It took me another fifteen minutes to finish loading my tools and securing the debris from the outhouse in the bed of my truck. I was just cinching the last strap in place when I heard the tires of an approaching car crunching in the gravel. I looked toward the gate and saw a marked police car slow to a stop near it.
I mounted up and drove toward the gate to meet him. I knew without looking that it was Baylor Rice, one of Susan’s patrol officers. With only four patrol officers on the payroll, they worked one to a shift, and it was easy to keep track of who was working at any given time—except when all hell broke loose and they were all called out. This happened all too often in our
