One Was a Soldier

There was a long pause. Finally, a voice said, “Prove it.”

Oh, for chrissake. “Look out your front window, asshole. You can see my cruiser sitting at the foot of your drive.”

Another period of silence. Then, “Whaddaya want?”

“I want you to open up this goddamn door before I kick it in!”

The door cracked open. Eric slid his boot into the opening, leaned against the edge of the door with his shoulder, and greased right through. “Hey!” McNabb backed away, bunching his hands into fists. “You can’t do that.”

“We’re like vampires, asshole. You open the door, we get to come in and stay.”

“What the hell do you want?” McNabb was dressed for the outdoors: ripstop woodlands camo pants and a matching shirt. A blaze-orange vest and bill cap were hooked over a kitchen chair.

“Going someplace?”

“I’m meeting some buddies. We’re going riding. No law against that.”

“Riding where?”

“We got a course set up behind the resort. Anybody who works for the company can use it. You can check. Nobody’s trespassing.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass whose woods you’re tearing up on that oversized roller skate. I want you to come with me to the station. We need to have a talk with you.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“Not yet.”

“Then screw you. I know my rights. I don’t have to talk with you or with anyone.”

Eric lunged forward. Twisted his fingers in McNabb’s collar and contracted his bicep, jerking the younger man up until he was dangling, boot toes pattering against the kitchen floor. McNabb gurgled. Clawed at Eric’s hand. “You can come with me conscious, or you can come with me unconscious. That’s as far as your rights go.”

“Uck oo!” McNabb swung wildly, unaimed blows Eric deflected with his forearms.

“That’s it, asshole, you just assaulted an officer. You’re under-” McNabb’s boot connected solidly to his knee. Eric howled, dropped the perp, staggered back, swearing, sweating, eyes watering. Jesus! It felt like his fucking kneecap was broken.

He raised his head. McNabb was at the other end of the kitchen. Gasping. Spitting. Receiver in one hand. Dialing with the other. Calling a lawyer. Calling the press. Calling his wife. Tattletale. Fucking little tattletale. He charged McNabb, knocking him into the wall. The receiver clattered to the floor. Eric stomped it, once, twice, until it broke into black shards and green chips.

“C’mon, asshole,” Eric rasped. “C’mon. Just you and me now. Let’s do it. Let’s do it.”

***

“Fifteen-seventy, this is Dispatch, do you copy?”

Hadley unhooked her mic. “Dispatch, this is fifteen-seventy, go ahead.”

“I’ve just had a nine hundred from the McNabb house. That’s 16 Musket Way.”

A nine hundred. A 911 call that was broken off before any communication could take place. Most times, it was a four-year-old after a preschool trip to the fire station. Occasionally, a teen who didn’t realize his prank call could be traced. Sometimes, it was bad. Real bad.

“Eric McCrea reported Wyler McNabb had returned home this morning. Eric was headed there to bring him in. My last contact with him was at oh-nine-forty. He’s not answering my hails.”

Hadley’s stomach rose and lodged in her esophagus, even as her hand flicked on her light bar and siren and her foot tromped on the gas. “Roger that, Dispatch. I am responding.”

“I’m sending in whoever else I can raise, so you’ll have backup.” Harlene’s matter-of-fact recitation faltered. “Be careful, Hadley. Remember what the chief says.”

“Don’t be a hero. Don’t worry. I’m not planning on it.”

***

Hadley Knox hated suspense movies. Couldn’t watch horror. Any scene involving the hero walking warily into an unknown situation had her holding a pillow over her face and fast-forwarding to the next part.

So she recognized the irony of her position. She had taken on a job that kept requiring her to do the exact same thing she wouldn’t watch in a DVD. The training helped, and the past two years’ experience helped, and practicing three times weekly at the range helped a lot, as she now felt sure she could hit a target smaller than the side of a barn if necessary. Even so, she still felt as if a swarm of half-frozen ants were crawling up her skin as she pulled her unit in behind Eric’s and got out.

One glance told her McCrea hadn’t returned to his vehicle, either to call for help or to secure a prisoner. She unsnapped her holster. Drew her Glock 9. Positioned her arm, straight down and slightly outward, the carrying stance that would, her instructors at the Police Basic course had promised, keep her from shooting her own foot off.

She heard the first noise as she entered the garage. A thud, like a bag of flour being dropped from a height. Then a mangled, indistinct sound, something that had come out of a human throat, something that made those ants march double-time up the back of her neck.

The door that led into the kitchen from the garage was ajar. Not far enough to see inside. Another cry, or shout. Then another. No time to weigh the situation. No time. She took a stance at the door, shoulder-on, presenting the smallest target. Took a deep breath. Raised her near foot and kicked the door in, almost bouncing it back in her face because she overestimated its hollow-core weight. Came down hard on the same foot, still shoulder-on, swept the room with her Glock, yelling, “Police! Drop your weapon and get on the ground!”

She saw McCrea at the same instant, straddling a perp who was already on the floor, and she had a second to think Oh, thank God, he’s okay and then she registered the blood, and saw that McCrea had his service piece in his hand, a big SIG SAUER.45, three pounds of steel, and he raised it up and whack, bludgeoned McNabb in the face with it. Whack! Blood sprayed across the no-wax flooring. Whack! McNabb wasn’t moving, wasn’t resisting, wasn’t making a sound, so Hadley did it for him, let out a screech that would have embarrassed her if she had been able to think about it and launched her whole body forward. She tackled Eric, knocked him to his side, scrabbled for his weapon, all the while screaming, “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!”

He rolled over her, banging her head so hard against the floor she saw stars. He gripped her wrist and banged it again, harder, then again, until her bruised knuckles released and her gun clunked to the floor. He hit it with his other hand and sent it spinning into an overturned chair. She kicked and bucked beneath him, thinking he’s snapped thinking rape thinking I lost my piece, oh, God and the shame and fear and anger coalesced inside her and she head-butted him, then punched him one-two in the diaphragm as he reared back in pain, and as he turned red and choked for air she twisted, rolling to her stomach beneath him, and pushed onto her hands and knees, throwing him off her.

She scrambled for her gun. Seized it. Assumed the stance. Pointed it, not at the feebly croaking Wyler McNabb, but at her fellow officer.

An outline at the door made her jerk her gun up. The chief. His own weapon out, down, to the side. He raised his hands, showing his finger was off the trigger. “Knox?” He glanced at her, at McNabb, at McCrea, half-sprawled on the floor with blood dripping from his nose. “What the hell just happened here?”

“Sorry, Chief.” She was amazed to hear her voice sounding so normal. She holstered her gun and saw that she looked normal as well, blouse still tucked in, service belt still centered. Her awful polyester pants weren’t even creased.