ATE CONTINUED WIPING the granite counter top as she picked up the phone. “Hi, Cecily,” she said, without missing a swipe. “No, I expect her any minute...I know, the poor thing...Sorry, we’ve been gone all day.”
She put down her sponge and went out to the front door. Christina’s school group was past the house and halfway in front of the next. She pressed the phone to her side. “Mrs. Kelly,” she called, “did Christina come home with you?”
“No, the girls said she was waiting for you to pick her up.” The same panicked expression suddenly fell over both women’s faces. Mrs. Kelly rushed to the porch.
Kate craned her neck, peering up and down the street. “She told me she wanted to walk home. I wonder where she’d have gone.”
“I’ll stay here while you go see if she’s waiting at the school,” Mrs. Kelly suggested, trying to remain calm.
Kate quickly explained the problem to Cecily, who, before running to her Jeep, shouted, “I’ll drive past the apartment and meet you at the school.”
Danny was just skateboarding around the corner as his mother rolled through the stop sign. “Where are you going?” he hollered, grabbing hold of the door handle.
“To look for Christina!”
“I’ll go with you!” He hung on, skating alongside the vehicle. Kate, startled by his action, impulsively slammed on the brakes. Unprepared for the sudden stop, Danny flew forward and hit the mirror. “Uhhh!” the blow knocked him off his board. But, being a teenager, Danny jumped right up, seemingly unfazed, picked up his board, tossed it in back of the car, and climbed aboard.
“Are you all right?”
“Fine. Where is she?”
“I don’t know, she was supposed to come home with the other kids.”
Christina crawled out from her hiding place. I’ve gotta show this stuff to Danny, she thought as she flew down the stairs to the apartment below and ran outside, locking the door behind her.
Soon she was skipping down the street, trying to figure out why she felt so good and so bad at the same time. She remembered Jake yammering on and on about the rush he felt rappelling from atop the tree house. Detective work gave her the same sort of rush, she decided. She’d looked Melvin in the eye—so to speak—and lived to tell about it. She’d beat him twice, in fact.
Then, as she reviewed the events of the past hour, something occurred to her: “His eyes...” she whispered to herself, “they weren’t so cold and hollow.” And the door in the tree house—it’d fallen and hit him on the head....Yet she’d seen no bumps or cuts. Maybe it wasn’t Melvin! “I need to talk with Dr. Wendy,” she said between breaths.
Stacey considered the predicament he was in. No food, no home, no money, no radio or computer, no car—and no friends. How could Barker double cross me? he asked himself. If he hurried to the Merc, he might beat Barker to it. He was only a few hundred yards from where he’d parked it.
He knew Bingham had to be fuming. And if the big guy acted out of spite rather than sound judgment, he could be had.The trees provided cover as he and Sig trudged along. When he approached the parking lot, he crouched down and peered cautiously through the trees. His car was exactly where he’d left it. “Sit,” he commanded, then calmly walked over to it. So far, so good. He opened the trunk and removed the spare. From behind it he took the plastic container and the captain’s gun. If Barker crossed him, the car wasn’t safe. He returned to the cover of the trees, breathing a bit easier. At the next bridge he ducked under its girders to wait until nightfall.
Kate spun around the corner in the direction of Melvin’s apartment—where she met up with Christina, walking alone. “You scared us half to death! Where’ve you been?”
“I decided to walk home past our apartment. I needed to prove to myself I wouldn’t be afraid the rest of my life.”
Later, after suffering through one of Kate’s “talks,” helping with the supper dishes and an hour of homework, Christina coaxed Danny to his bedroom. Promising he wouldn’t tell a soul, she shared with him where she’d gone, recounting the entire frightening experience. She wasn’t sure he believed her— until she described the computer. He’d read in magazines about such equipment.
She also explained how the police couldn’t get a warrant to search Melvin’s apartment for evidence, and without evidence they couldn’t put him in jail, adding, “We live there, so we don’t need a warrant.”
Before long, she’d sold Danny on her plan. He was a bit apprehensive, but looked forward to seeing this awesome computer network for himself. “It’s settled then,” said Christina, her promise to God forgotten. “We’ll start tomorrow. We’ll tell your mom and dad we’re going to the tree house.”
The second bridge was much older than the one that led onto Columbia Lane. It also rested higher off the water. Stacey had wedged himself up into one of several large cavities between the tall metal trusses. It was cramped and the roar of water was almost deafening, but there just weren’t that many safe hiding places around.
Sig bristled at the contents of the container his master carried . Stacey removed the plastic bag from the container, dropped the empty dish into the river, and tucked the bag under his arm. The smell of wet concrete and rusty steel was soon forgotten as the ice cold water sent a wet chill through the air. Stacey, dressed only in jeans, a shirt and the thin jacket, sat shivering in the cold, over his head in trouble, perched above a literal stream of troubled waters.
Maria roused Don from his nap. His father was awake and wanted to speak to him again. “You must return...and keep...tu hija alive,” the old man told him between slow, labored breaths. The effects of the drugs made it hard for him to focus. He seemed to slip in and out of consciousness. “She’s still...in much danger. I can go in peace...if you will promise me...to do as I tell you.”
Don strained to understand the words, some in Spanish, some in broken English. He managed to drag enough Spanish from memory to determine what his father had said. “Promise me,” his father repeated. He opened his eyes and gazed into Don’s face, pleading. For a brief moment Don saw behind those eyes the strong, dynamic man he once knew.
“I promise, Papa.”
“Now...you must return home. There’s no...time to spare.” And then he repeated, word for word, the warning, all in Spanish, that he’d given before. Then again he closed his eyes. Don contemplated what his father had said. He was reluctant to leave. His dad was probably just delusional. But it was true: Christina had been in serious trouble only the night before.
After pondering the situation and discussing the matter with his sisters, Don decided he’d do as his father wished. As he went to bid his last goodbye, his father jolted awake once more. “You must go....My spirit...goes with you,” he intoned. Then he drifted back to sleep. Reluctantly, Don made a call to the bus station. Maria would take him first thing in the morning.
Stacey’s parents anxiously watched the news reporter rattle off the day’s events. For the third day in a row, the vicious cop-killing, drug-stealing officer had slipped through the hands of the law! A clip of the captain’s car sticking up out of a torrent of water was the backdrop for the newsman’s fretful report. Amber, lying on the floor, offered comfort. “Mom, don’t worry. He’s smart. And we know he didn’t do it. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He was safe this morning—” She immediately clapped her hand over her mouth, horrified. She had betrayed her brother’s confidence.
“What do you mean, dear?”
“I promised I wouldn’t tell.”
“Tell what?”
Her father joined in. “Amber, if you know something, you have
to tell us.”
“Rick...he was here last night. I saw him leave this morning,” she
confessed. “He told me a man was trying to put the blame on him for
things he didn’t do. He said he was going to find enough evidence to
put him away.”
“Where did he say he was going?” her father asked. “He wouldn’t tell me.”
Her father began to pace the floor. He had many friends at the
county and state level. If he made the wrong call, he could do a great
deal of damage; on the other hand, if he made the right call, he might
be able to help. “Thank you, Amber. Now it’s time to get to bed.” Amber sobbed into her pillow, her mother seated on the side of
the bed, consoling her. In the family room at the opposite side of the
house, her father had picked up the phone. The man he judged to be
in the best position to help his son was his old friend Jay White. He
placed the call.
Feeling like an icicle, Stacey and Sig lurked under the bridge. When night fell, they came out of hiding and made for their destination. In less than half an hour they stood at the back door of the police station. If no new prisoners had been brought in, the place would be deserted. The empty parking lot confirmed his hunch. With his keys to the building, he opened the door and disarmed the alarm. Sig hesitated before entering. Stacey assured him it was okay.
With a lock-pick set in hand and a small flashlight from Barker’s drawer, he went to the captain’s office, gently worked the door open and slipped inside. Sig was commanded to stay on alert outside. Stacey went through every drawer and checked every file, scattering them around the office. The captain only kept file copies; Stacey’s disturbance wouldn’t interfere with any legitimate police work.
For nearly a full hour he searched, turning up nothing of importance. Sig was growing impatient, but stayed at his post. Stacey checked his watch. He’d better get out of there soon. He guessed Grue was on duty, and one of the standard practices of the night officer was to drive past every few hours and check the building.
As he made preparations to leave, Stacey took the captain’s mohair coat off the coat rack and put it on. He then proceeded to dump the contents of the bag, which he’d kept tucked safely under his arm, over the entire office. If this didn’t give Bingham heartburn, he didn’t know what would. Next he took a pencil, drove it into the keyhole of the captain’s door and broke it off. A little white-out lettering on the window provided the perfect finishing touch. It read: Match this fabric to the seat in the captain’s car. The same fibers match the clothing found in the vent. Then, using a piece of tape, he stuck the little cloth piece onto the door.
Finally, he went to his desk, removed the charger and extra battery from its place, and shoved them in the pockets of the coat. Taking the spare dog whistle from his top drawer, he looped the string over his neck. Stacey felt good—his list of assets was growing.
As he started to punch in his alarm code—likely for the last time— Stacey realized he needed a radio. The code already set, he waited for its countdown. When the digital display gave the “all clear” signal, he hurried over to Deek’s desk, snatched up the vest hanging from the back of his chair, removed the captain’s overcoat and put on the vest. The interior alarm began to sound. Stacey pulled the coat back on over the vest. What he was about to do was risky, but he had nothing to lose.
Exiting the building, the pair slipped behind the garbage dumpster, some 20 yards from the back door. Bingham lived closer to the station than anyone else, yet he always seemed to be the last one on the scene. Now Stacey was staking his life on it. Quietly they waited.
Grue was first on the scene. He stayed outside the building, much more cautious than Stacey had expected. Stacey could see him through the car window, calling for backup.
It was another ten minutes before Olsen arrived, and Barker pulled up a minute later. Between the three of them, they elected to enter— to Stacey’s relief. Mitch arrived after they’d secured the building.
It was odd: Bingham hadn’t made his grand entrance. Perhaps he hadn’t even been called. Stacey gazed on through the rear glass door as Barker removed the piece of fabric taped to Bingham’s office window, then had given instructions to the other officers. Olsen argued, even as the other men nodded their agreement. Olsen slammed a chair against a desk and stomped away before finally giving in, but Stacey could tell the young, gung-ho cop wasn’t at all happy.
Stacey watched as Barker took a razor blade from his desk and scraped the white-out from the window. Mitch returned with a damp cloth and wiped off any residue. Barker then picked up the phone and made a call. Stacey assumed it was to the captain.
He calculated it would take at least seven minutes for the captain to arrive. Commanding Sig to stay, Stacey crept out to the three police cars parked behind the building. Using his razor-sharp pocket knife, he pierced the sidewalls of each of the left-front tires. The timing must be perfect. I can’t put Sig in danger.
Suddenly Deek’s Ford Taurus came squealing around the corner, catching Stacey completely off guard. It was Bingham. He hit the ground, rolled, then froze, ending up in front of one of the squad cars, his legs in plain sight. Air still hissed softly from the flattened tires.
The captain, wary, stopped three car lengths from the entrance and opened the car door. Stacey, the dog whistle between his lips, blew one short blast and one long. Sig leapt from behind the dumpster. In an instant his athletic body had closed the gap between himself and the car’s open door. Bingham struggled to wrest himself from the car. From his vantage point, Stacey could see his feet hit the ground.
He gave three short blasts, and Sig started to bark on the run. The sound came from deep within his chest, a deep, savage growl. While the sound was terrifying enough, it proved to be not quite as intimidating as the flashing white teeth showing from under the bared lips. Bingham, the dread in his face registering off the scale, then reached for his .38. Seeing Sig was in danger, Stacey rolled from under the car and went to his aid. But he needn’t have worried. Sig instinctively lunged to the side, then bull-rushed his assailant, reflexively biting and twisting the arm with the weapon. The captain lost his footing and fell to the pavement. Stacey drew his weapon and charged forward, the muzzle of the gun pointed directly between Bingham’s eyes. “Off, Sig!” Immediately the dog obeyed.
Stacey put his finger to his lips—“Shhh.” After disarming the captain and jerking the radio from his belt, he glanced in the direction of the station’s massive double doors. All was quiet. Apparently none of the other officers had heard the commotion. Then he turned his attention to Bingham. “I think I’ll deposit your brains here in the parking lot and mingle them with the blood of my friend Kiser Derickson,” he snarled, “the man you murdered just after returning from your fling with the blonde in the blue dress.” He drew back the hammer on his revolver. “But first tell me what else you’re up to.”
Bingham sat in a puddle of urine. By the smell, Stacey figured he’d also lost control over his bowels. Bingham looked for some means of escape. There was no fear of Stacey, or his gun; he’d been in tighter spots before. It was the dog—the damn dog!
Gathering his wits about him, Bingham boldly told Stacey where he could shove his gun, and warned that he’d better kill him right then, because if he didn’t, he was a dead man. Until one of them was in the grave, in all the earth there wouldn’t be a safe enough place to hide.
Just then, Olsen stepped out the back door, looking for Bingham. Stacey thought about killing his adversary, then and there. It would be so easy. But then he’d miss out seeing Bingham go to jail. “Works for me,” he said, lowering the gun.
Then a shot rang out. Stacey careened backward, and dropped his revolver in the captain’s smelly lap. Groaning with pain, he crawled across Bingham’s prone body to get to the car. As he pulled himself up behind the wheel and put the car in gear, two bullets penetrated the rear door. Olsen continued firing at the fleeing auto, one bullet shattering the rear window.
Bingham rolled over and, partially regaining his senses, raised the gun and fired off three more rounds at the fleeing car. The empty revolver clicked five more times before he realized no ammunition remained. Barker, Grue, and Mitch crashed out the rear door at the same time that Mr. Jay White, County Prosecutor, pulled up to the building. They saw the captain struggle to his feet, his foul mouth letting loose. Grue jumped in his car and started from the parking lot. He only got as far as the walk—his front tire was riding on its rim.
Mr. White placed a call from inside his automobile. Bingham released another string of vulgarities as a precursor to ordering them to make chase. Barker and Mitch stood looking down at the pitiful wreck of a man, not knowing what to do. Mr. White put down his phone and cautiously stepped from the car. Barker stepped forward to greet him.
“Give me your weapon, and the keys to your car,” demanded Bingham, holding out his hand to Barker.
White shook his head, silently overriding the captain’s direct order. “Let’s go in and talk.”
Stacey struggled to breathe, the pain warming his face. He wiped the tiny beads of sweat that had built up on his forehead, as if gathering steam for the night to come. The bullet certainly had brought his momentum to a slow crawl. Deek’s vest had saved his life. When the bullet hit the vest, it had been deflected downward and to the side so that it had entered his body in the region below the armpit, though with much less force. Still, it had carried a whale of a punch. He knew of vest-wearers who’d been knocked unconscious. Thank goodness that hadn’t happened. The captain would have retrieved the gun and ended it all right then.
Part of him wanted to laugh. The last picture in his memory was of the captain squinching his nose and cheeks, his face wrinkled up like a prune. The sound of the gun shot had surprised them both.
Stacey couldn’t afford to take Bingham’s threat lightly. He outweighed Stacey by 60-plus pounds, but Stacey’s youth was on his side. The captain had been angry and careless; by contrast, Stacey had been calm and willing to fight for what was right.
Stacey maneuvered the car to the home of his friend and former mentor. Asingle light was on in the master bedroom when he knocked on the window. Dianne peeked out. Seeing Stacey’s face, Sig at his side, she immediately slid aside the pane of glass. “Rick, what are you doing here?” As she spoke, her eyes darted randomly into the darkness. He could see she’d been crying. She looked older without her makeup; her puffy eyes and red nose made his heart ache.
“I want you to know I didn’t shoot Deek,” he whispered. “I never, ever believed you did,” she said between sniffles. “Deek told me about the things you two were working on. I’ve been at a loss as to how to help you.”
“Hey, you’ve had enough to do.” Stacey struggled with shortness of breath and dizziness, and he winced with pain as he spoke. “I don’t think I can come to the funeral. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am.”
“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
“I took a bullet in the side. Olsen thought I was going to kill the captain. Luckily I was wearing Deek’s vest.”
At mention of the name, each gave the other an awkward glance. Neither said a word. They didn’t need to.
Dianne broke the momentary trance. “You’d better come in.” Then she pushed the window shut. By the time he reached the back door, she, in her bathrobe, was waiting to meet him.
Dianne had worked as a nurse before their first baby had been born almost 19 years before. She insisted he remove his coat, vest and shirt to get a closer look at the wound. “It’s not my coat,” Stacey said between breaths, pulling it off. “It’s Captain Bingham’s.”
The irony of it all caused the corners of her lips to perk up ever so slightly. Struggling in pain to remove his shirt, she reached up and lifted it to reveal a hand-size bruise. Light-colored in the middle, dark rings of varying shades spread out more than six inches, forming a wavy ring of swelling flesh.
Dianne stifled a gasp. “You need to see a doctor. It might have bruised your heart.”
“I don’t think it would be a good idea right now. I just scared the crap out of Bingham. He’ll have every agency in the state hunting me by now. It’s not safe for you if I’m here. I’d better get going.”
“Not before I wrap you up,” she insisted. Then, tenderly, she said, “You probably have three broken ribs, too.” She left the room to get her supplies. Meanwhile, Sig had seized the opportunity to sniff the Derickson’s miniature collie. It was sort of a K-9 ritual every time they came to the home. Actually, he seemed more interested in the smaller dog’s food dish than he did the dog itself. Dianne returned with several ace bandages and a prescription bottle. “Sig looks hungry.”
“He hasn’t eaten since this morning.”
“You’re probably both starving. Go ahead and let him eat. I’m sure Max won’t mind.” Stace gave the proper command and Sig, in just seconds, had licked the dish clean.
Dianne took a roll of gauze and tightly wrapped Stacey’s chest. “Now, here are some pain killers. You’re going to need them. I’ve had them around since Austin was born.” She tucked them in the captain’s coat as Stacey struggled to put the vest back on. Before he left, she placed a quart of orange juice and a plastic bag full of leftover pizza in another of the roomy pockets. Finally, she stepped into the living room and took a handmade afghan from the back of the worn out couch.
“Can I leave Deek’s old Taurus in the garage a few days?” he asked. “I took it from the captain.”
“No one will even notice it’s there. Here, this’ll keep you warm.” She handed him the blanket. She declined to ask what he was going to do or where he was going. She knew better—as did he.
As he headed out the door, she reached out and patted his arm. “Our prayers are with you.”
“Thanks. I know.” Somehow she would make it without Deek. He knew she would.