Images de pluie, dans l’ombre

He was kneeling behind a tree when she caught up to him, and she could feel a shuddering pulse hammering away inside her skull -- yet she tried to breathe soundlessly -- because he was.

"2141, 102, we're behind the house, maybe twenty yards, lots of activity inside, screaming, crying."

"Any reason you shouldn't go in now?"

He heard a man's voice inside -- "No, we have time...I'm not going to do that!" then a physical altercation started.

"2141, we're going in, need code 3 backup!" He started for the back porch, picked up a wrought iron lawn chair and threw it against a sliding glass door, and she followed him through cascades of falling glass...

III

They drove by her apartment a little before seven, and she was waiting for them -- dressed a little too well, he thought. Nice dress, high heels and makeup, and he hardly recognized his rookie. She seemed nervous, a little self conscious as they drove across down to his father's place, but it had been a hard couple of days. The shooting review board, hours of questioning by Internal Affairs and a routine interview at the DAs office -- but no verdict yet. No decision whether her first shooting had been justified or not.

Neither would be allowed back on the street until there was one.

He wasn't worried.

She was.

"You look nice," his wife said to Desjardins. "Has he told you much about his father yet?"

She looked at his eyes in the rear view mirror, then looked at his wife. Much taller than expected, she thought. Kind eyes, but kind of sad, too. Like she'd seen enough, knew enough about people to remain curious.

"Just that he's a heart doctor of some kind," Deb said.

"Well, he's brittle," his wife said. "Like: push him hard and he'll break. Don't talk about June, his wife, unless you want to see him break."

"Okay."

"For that matter, don't talk about June around this guy..."

"Alright," he said, "that's enough."

She watched the exchange, sensed friction in the action and reaction. Like both had been worn down by such back and forth over the years. Like she had had enough hushed reprimands over the years, and now she turned away, looked out the window as the drove south on Preston Road past the country club. A few more blocks and he turned down Willow Wood Circle and drove down to the very end. He pulled up to the curb and stopped, went around and helped his wife out of the car, then came around and got her door.

"Thanks," she said, but she saw he looked distracted, careworn, and wished she'd ducked the invitation, but he led them down to the walkway and then up to the door. It was a two story affair, pinkish brick that seemed darker in the shade of so many trees, and the steep roof was vaguely French, she thought, and it was sheathed in what looked like slate and copper. He rang the bell and a maid opened the door, told them "everyone is out back, just awaitin' for y'all...' and he led them through the house to the backyard.

And it was like a forest back there, she thought. A solid canopy of dense foliage, not a shred of sunshine making it down to the ground. And no grass, either. Nothing but plants and monkey grass, until she saw the pool. Small, multi-level tiers, and the walls and bottom of the pool seems to be made of black slate -- and the net effect was of being in a grotto of some sort. Like the world outside this house was a world apart, held away by the illusions created within these walls.

"I heard you've had a rough few days," she heard, and she turned to the voice, saw the man from the maroon Jaguar -- and she looked down, saw his outstretched hand. She took his hand and he held it for a moment, looking into her eyes, then he seemed to sigh a little, and draw inward. "Could I get you something to drink?"

She looked around, saw that a cluster of kids had formed around her FTO, and she desperately wanted to get back to him, back to something familiar -- because suddenly she felt very out of place. The women were diamond encrusted and well-coifed, the men looked like fashion models just in from a catalogue shoot -- and she felt like someone her partner'd just dragged in from the boondocks.

"You know, I really don't know what..."

And he smiled. "Come with me," he said, and the old man led her into the house, to the bar, and he went inside the little room and picked up a glass and filled it with shaved ice, poured a little dark rum, then a little light rum, and finally, something she didn't recognize. He stirred the contents then added pineapple juice and a splash of orange juice, poured everything into a blender and added more ice. He hit the switch for a second and poured the contents into a chilled martini glass, looking at the color before he handed the drink to her.

"Try this," he said, smiling -- and she did.

"Oh my God," she breathed. "That's so smooth!"

He beamed. "It's strong, so not too fast -- or you'll be sorry."

"Sorry?"

"You might do something you'll want to forget later."

"Such as?" she said, a little suggestively.

And he looked at her just then, looked into her eyes again. "You never can tell, Miss Desjardins."

He even pronounced her name correctly, and that, for some reason, thrilled her. She watched him come around for her, and he held out his hand, led her back out into the yard. "Now, why don't you come over and tell me what in heaven's name convinced you to become a police officer?"

He was so unlike his son, so easy to talk to, so attentive, so unwilling to criticize. When her glass was empty he went in and made her another, and another, and she found it easier and easier to talk to him, told him things she'd never told anyone before -- and pretty soon he didn't look like a man in his fifties. Didn't look even a little like her own father.

No, he looked like a man, an attractive man who was paying serious attention to her.

"Look," she said after an hour of increasingly intimate questions, "I'll never find my way to the restroom, so could you take me, please?"

He looked at her and smiled, then stood and offered his hand, again, and led her inside -- to his bedroom, then he stood with her outside his bathroom and he looked at her.

"I'm curious," she said. "Do you want me to fall in love with you, or am I reading this all wrong?"

He smiled, looked away, looked around his room. "Do you know, you're the first woman who's been in this room since my wife passed away."

"No one in the bed?"

"Not a soul."

"Why me?"

"I'm not sure I know how to answer that. Not yet, anyway."

"You'd better lock that door," she said, "and turn out the lights."

IV

He looked at the name on the post-it note and searched memory for a moment, then recalled the face. Ewan Biltmore, the pastor from the bus wreck, all those kids. He looked at the number and went to the briefing room, dialed the number and sat at the sergeant's desk with a notepad out, at the ready.

"Reverend Biltmore's office, this is Barbara speaking. How may I help you?"

He told the girl who he was, and that he was returning the 'reverend's' call.

"One moment, please."

The man's voice came on, rich and sonorous. "Yes, son," the man said, "I just wanted to know how you're doing?"

"I'm fine, sir."

"I see. I ask because you seemed a bit distraught the other day."

"Yessir, it's been a rough few weeks."

"Do you attend services, son?"

"No sir. Not in years."

"What happened, if you don't mind me asking?"

"After my mother passed away, I just...well..."

"I understand. Look, I don't want to keep you, but I wanted to invite you to services this Sunday. We serve lunch after, so bring an appetite, would you?"

"I'm working Sunday, sir, but if I'm free I'll try to stop by."

"Yes, I'd like that. Hope to see you then."

"Goodbye, sir."

"Yes, good day to you."

He looked at the clock on the wall: 11:23 -- not quite time to check in service. He went over the hit list, the speeding-related accidents over the past week that Traffic Division used to set radar enforcement schedules, and the L-T had circled Kiest and Westmoreland, between noon and three, and put that in his box. He dropped off a supplemental report and headed to the parking lot, checked out the Harley and put on his helmet, then checked into service.

Out onto Illinois then south on Cockrell Hill Road to Kiest, just like yesterday. Just like the day before yesterday. Just like tomorrow would almost certainly be.

Yet...what was waiting for him out here today, he wondered. What shit-storm was waiting to break open and fall from the clouds. "And who's gonna die," he asked no one in particular.

Certainly not God.

He thought of Biltmore as he pulled off the road a few hundred yards south of Kiest, thought of the locomotive engineer's words: "I see that guy lookin' at me, his face all blank like, then he pulls right up on the tracks...and stops, and he never stopped lookin' at me...not once, the whole time."

Why? Why such despair? Why would someone be willing to kill himself -- and dozens of children, too? A church employee, no less?

He pulled out the radar gun and flipped in the power and ran the 'TEST' circuit, then pulled out his tuning forks and knocked them on his knee, one by one, holding the vibrating rods up to the radar aperture and hitting the trigger. When all three checked out he put the forks back in his shirt pocket and looked at a car -- headed his way -- at, he guessed, 38 miles per hour. He held up the radar and triggered it, saw the car's speed at 37 and falling -- rapidly now -- and with his visual estimate verified he sat on the bike with the radar balanced on his thigh, waiting for his first customer of the day.

It didn't take long.

Bright orange corvette. Heavy acceleration from the light at Kiest -- a manual transmission, convertible. Visual estimate 55 and climbing, in a 35 zone, and he dropped the radar in the left saddlebag and toggled the starter, pulled out into traffic as the Corvette passed. Strobes on, siren next, get in close, read the plate. She's signaling now, got religion real bad now...

"2141, traffic."

"41."

"Out at Westmoreland and Silverwood on Texas personalized Henry Oscar Tom, Lincoln Edward George Zebra."

"11:55 hours."

He got off the Harley and looked over the car, slowly, then walked up to the drivers door. Blond hair -- long, face -- sunburned. He moved closer: white gym shorts, orange halter top, bare feet. Inspection sticker expired, no seat belt. Fingernails? Long and black, with little red spots on them. Perfect, he thought. A black widow...

"Morning ma'am," he said, running through the department's mandated 'seven step approach' for initiating a traffic stop: "Hello, my name is officer 'insert your name here', and you were observed having sex with a donkey, in violation of the Laws of the Great State of Texas..."

"...And I'll need to see your driver's license and proof of financial responsibility."

"My what?"

"Proof of insurance, ma'am."

"Oh." She rummaged around in seat, then the car's glove box -- then turned to him. "Sorry...I must've left them at home," she said, batting her eyes. "Was I really going fifty five?"

"Ma'am, I'll need you full name and date of birth, please."

"Mindy Haskell, March third, fifty nine."

"Keys, on the dash, please?"

"What?"

"Car keys, up there on the dash now." He walked back to the Harley and picked up the mic: "41, need a 27, 28 and 29 on Haskell, Mindy, female white, three, three, fifty nine."

"11:59 hours."

"Ma'am, please keep your hands where I can see them."

"2141, stand by to copy 29 information."

"Oh, great," he said, reaching for the mic. "41, go ahead."

"Multiple 29s signals five, twenty three, and that D-L comes back suspended for signal 40 times three."

"41, confirm warrants, and I'll need a unit for transport, dispatch wrecker this location."

"1200 hours."

"Ma'am, hands where I can see them. Now."

His hands go to the Sig226 on his hip -- but her hands aren't coming up. She's looking at him in the door mounted sideview mirror, and he can see her eyes.

'Not scared,' he says to no one in particular, 'and that ain't right.'

The Sig comes out and he steps out of her line of sight, moves to the right, and he sees her turn, sees the pistol in her right hand as she lifts up in the seat, then the pistol is coming up and everything slows down.

It sounds like a loud 'SNAP' and he feels the bullet slam into his vest -- but two rounds have left his Sig by then. The first round hits her left eye, the second goes through the right side of her neck, exits after going through her spine.

He hears "2230 out with 2141 -- signal 33, shots fired!" on the radio and he wonders who 2230 is, then sees a patrol car across the street, sliding to a stop. "2230, ambulance code 3 and 41 looks okay, one suspect down."

"1203 hours."

His chest is on fire and his breathing feels constricted -- and he's stumbling backwards, then sitting on the pavement, pulling off his shirt then pulling the velcro straps on his vest, throwing it off.

He sees Desjardins running his way and he's pulling off his t-shirt, clawing at his chest. "I can't breathe," he hears a voice say, then he thinks 'I'm falling -- backwards -- slowly' -- and he hopes she catches his head before it hits the pavement, because that might hurt.

V

He's sitting outside in the twilight, on the grassy lawn, the orange brick house behind him now. News helicopters circle overhead, trying to get the shot they'll lead with for the ten o'clock news, and the watch commander and the chief are talking with reporters down the street, the camera's bright lights attracting a million insects. Desjardins has been in an ambulance with one of the last kids they found, maybe six years old, hiding under a bed. She heard his cries, found him -- and the kid wouldn't let go of her. He'd counted sixty cigarette burns on his thighs and torso, then gave up and walked back into the living room.

The cages had been moved into the garage by the time they stormed in, and the men were busily setting up rooms to look like this was an ongoing church school, that everything was peachy keen and hunky dory. "No, no problems here, officer, and sure, you can come in and look around. See all our happy, smiling children?"

A detective walked over and sat down on the grass next to him, pulled out a steno pad and flipped to a page he'd written on earlier that evening. "Okay, let me run down what you told me, see if anything else comes to mind."

"Sure, fire away."

"You were out back, behind the tree you marked, and you heard someone yell "No, I'm not going to do that!"

"Yup."

"And you put the 33 out, ran for the back porch, the sliding glass door, and you picked up the chair on the way, threw it into the glass and you and Desjardins entered the residence that way."

"Yessirree--Bob."

He chuckled at that. "I'm curious...why not just try the door?"

"I was kind of in a hurry. Anyway, I was thinking, 'What would Steven Seagal do, you know?' Would Seagal just try the door? Fuck no. He would pick up that very same chair, throw it just exactly the same way I did."

"I can quote you on that?"

"Fuckin-A."

"Okay. So, first thing you see is a kid, throat cut, on the floor, and at least one other body halfway in a large, black garbage bag."

"That's a big ten four, good buddy."

"You alright, man?"

"No, I am not alright, man. I'm very seriously not alright. Make sure you put that down in your fuckin' report, too, wouldya?"

"Yeah. Got it. So the next thing you saw was the reverend. Ewan Biltmore. And you say you saw him last once before?"

"He invited me to services once, then lunch."

"And you went?"

"To lunch, yes."

"I'm curious. Why?"

"Couple of weeks after I worked a bad wreck, the accident with the bus from his church and the train..."

"Oh, shit. Didn't know that was you, man."

"Yeah, well, he called me, wanted to see how I was doing."

"How you were doing?"

"It was a bad' wreck, Sherlock."

"I know. So, Biltmore has a gun, a Smith 629. He sees Ainsworth coming in through the front door and he was getting ready to shoot, and you take him out. A double tap? That right?"

"Yup, once in the chest, the next right between the eyes."

"You're still on the pistol team, aren't you?"

"Yup."

"Okay, that accounts for the head shot. So, you run to Biltmore, Desjardins takes off for the sound of someone crying in a bedroom, and that's when you hear more shots, run to the bedroom where you think Desjardins is, and you say she drilled that Pridemoor fella, twice."

"Yup, and that's when she heard that kid, got him out from under the bed."

"Right, got that. So, you hear two shots next, you think Ainsworth's, that right?"

"I think, yes, but I couldn't see that part of the house from where I was then."

"Okay. Then the shotgun, what sounded like a shotgun, and by the time you got to the garage Ainsworth was down, and you hear the garage door opening. You see two men running, both with what you say were rifles, and one turned on you, and that's when you fired shots three and four?"

"Yup. Two head shots."

"Why not double taps?"

"I was angry. I thought, gee, maybe I should shoot them in the nuts, but no, I had to do it the hard way."

"I see. And after that?"

"I started looking for survivors."

"Anything you want to add?"

"No."

"If you think of anything..."

"I'll call you, slick."

"You need anything?"

He coughed once, then looked up and laughed -- shook his head and turned away before he said what he wanted to say. What he needed so say.

He felt her by his side a few minutes later, sitting there on the grass. She was looking at his hands and he looked down, saw blood all over them and he wondered when that had happened.

"Damn," he said. "I don't remember how I got blood on..."

"Ainsworth," one of the paramedics said as he walked by. "You were doing CPR on him."

"Hmm," he said. "Weird, ya know? I don't remember doing that." He turned and looked at her, saw the expression on her face, in her eyes. "You know, there are guys that have been here twenty years and never drawn a gun. Now there's you. Two weeks and two down. If you're not careful, you're going to develop a reputation."

"I was thinkin', you know. I wanted to...I think I got into this because..."

"I know."

"I think I'm going to turn in my letter. Go back to teaching."

He shook his head. "No. No, you're not."

"Oh?"

"You're not, because I'm not going to let you."

"You won't let me?"

"Yup."

"And why not?"

He turned and looked her in the eye: "Because, you're too good a cop."

She looked at him, let his words roll around in her mind for a while. "You know," she said, "I hope I never meet your wife."

"Oh?"

"It'll be a bitch telling her how much I love you."

He nodded his head, looked down and laughed. "Wait'll you meet my old man."

*

© 2017 Adrian Leverkühn | abw | part 3 of 4