Drift

by L T Ryan

  The Noble Creek Bottling Company was set in an industrial complex not far from Denver PD’s main headquarters. Briggs pushed the cruiser hard, the other motorists a blur as they zipped past. Briggs and Savage were the first on scene as they entered the lot.

  People streamed out of the building. The blood-covered shirts of the employees and the desperation in their eyes was something he would never forget. It was the reason he’d taken the job. To help people when they needed it most.

  Briggs’ words stuck with him to this day. “Fate picked us today. Let’s not let her down.” And then the wiry veteran patrolman did something Savage didn’t expect. He smiled. Gunshots rang out from inside the building, and Briggs took off running in the direction of the noise. Savage didn’t hesitate, keeping step with the man.

  Other units were filling the lot, sirens and squealing tires announcing their arrival. Briggs didn’t look back and neither did Savage. The gunfire ahead of them continued. Screams followed. They climbed a short stairwell to an employee entrance as the door burst open, slamming wide as a horde of workers spilled out. They nearly knocked Savage backward over the railing.

  Savage followed Briggs, cutting a path through the traumatized victims. Once inside, he could hear people calling out from various points in the building. Desperate and wounded, these employees were not lucky enough to make their escape. The gunfire had momentarily stopped, and now they had the dangerous task of playing hide and seek with a deranged gunman.

  Briggs silently gestured with his hands, showing Savage the direction to go. They were staged behind a walled partition that divided the management floor into two separate hallways, each lined with offices. Briggs would go left. Savage right. A 50/50 split. An even share of the danger. Fate chose us today, he remembered thinking as he stepped to the edge of the wall. A local paper later referred to his actions, saying he was fearless in the face of danger. The reporter’s description couldn’t have been further from the truth. Savage had never been more scared in his entire life and he fought to control the shaking of his entire body.

  Savage looked back over his shoulder toward Briggs, seeing the man disappear from sight as he moved forward. He took this as his cue and stepped out into the hallway.

  His department-issued Glock 22 pressed out in front of him as he stared down the long corridor. Savage desperately tried to remember his weeks of firearm training from the academy, recalling the importance of taking in quick, controlled breaths. Stepping forward, he saw an open door to an office less than ten feet away. On the floor, poking out, was a hand. A pool of blood formed an ever-expanding oval. The darkness of the liquid reflected the ceiling light’s glow.

  Savage moved forward. And then among the moans and cries for help he heard a sound that sent shivers down his spine. The familiar click of a magazine being seated. The bolt release was loud. Apparently, the gunman didn’t worry about noise discipline in his deranged state. Even worse, he was looking for a fight.

  Savage keyed his radio. In a hushed whisper, he transmitted, “Briggs, he’s on my side.”

  A static return. Savage didn’t know if his message was received. Some building’s atmospherics interfered with radio communication.

  Halfway to the open door, Savage stopped. The bloody pool changed. The reflected light was obscured and replaced by a muddled figure. Savage had a choice. Wait for the gunman to enter the hallway. Or close the distance and take the fight to him.

  Split second decisions don’t always lend themselves to reason. Of the two choices, Savage made his.

  Rushing forward, he closed the gap in a few steps. Stepping wide, he straddled the pool of blood with his gun pressed out at chest level. Standing before him was a short, middle-aged man with a receding hairline and wire-rim glasses. If it wasn’t for the assault rifle in his hands, he could’ve been mistaken for a banker. The gunman had the stock tucked into the pocket of his right shoulder and was looking through his sights at the man on the floor.

  The gunman, surprised by Savage, seemed torn between pulling the trigger on the wounded man on the floor or redirecting his aim toward the new threat. This dilemma, taking place in a fraction of a second, gave Savage the advantage.

  Savage would forever remember the first time the gun kicked. It was unlike any other time before. No amount of range training could equal the uniqueness of firing in a real-world situation. He didn’t know how many times he’d pulled the trigger but was told later after the scene was processed. Four shots, dead center, had ended the man’s life. An act of violence to end a continued act of violence.

  Four civilians were killed by the gunman before he and Briggs had arrived on scene. The man on the office floor was not one of the casualties. Because of Savage’s decision to press forward, the man lived. Fate chose him that day. And he answered.

  Through the fog of the past, Savage stared at Littleton and wondered how he would have fared under those circumstances. Hard to tell just by looking at a person. The true measure of a person’s mettle can’t be qualified on the outside. They need to be thrown into the fire.

  There would not be a field training officer like Briggs to show Littleton the ropes. Staffing levels and agency size meant the young deputy had been released upon the citizenry without any hands-on practical experience, and it would be up to Savage to guide him.

  “Mrs. Hatch?” Littleton asked, awkwardly entering the quiet of the main lobby.

  The only woman sitting in the room stood up from a wooden bench. She was disheveled and looked as though she’d slept in her clothes. Based on the lines of worry stretched across her face, it was probably a reasonable assessment.

  Littleton approached and shook the woman’s hand. Savage watched the exchange and focused his attention on the mother’s physical state. She appeared younger than her age. She carried herself with a gentleness, but grief surrounded her like a shawl.

  “Call me Jasmine.” She ran her hands through her platinum hair repeatedly while speaking with Littleton, and it was clear to Savage she was devastated by the news of her daughter’s passing. By those subtle observations, Savage deemed her a caring mother. The importance of such details is paramount when beginning any death investigation.

  “Okay, Jasmine.”

  Littleton seemed a bit uncomfortable in calling an elder by their first name. To Savage, it was a sign of a good upbringing. The rookie just scored a point in his book.

  “When was the last time you saw your daughter?” Littleton asked.

  “Yesterday morning. Olivia lives with me. Along with her son and daughter. She has since her husband died in a construction accident a few years back. She works late sometimes, and I take care of her children while she’s away. Normally she calls, but sometimes she gets busy and forgets. I just assumed it was one of those times.” Jasmine Hatch broke into tears. “My God. Her poor babies!”

  Littleton was in a state of total unease now. He rocked back and forth on the heels of his boots and fidgeted with the pen in his hand. Then he made an awkward gesture to console her, placing his hand on the woman’s shoulder. Savage knew it was done with good intentions, but the timing was off, and she reeled back and flinched at the contact.

  Jasmine reached into her purse and pulled open her cell phone. She scrolled the text messages, opening the most recent one. “See? Just this message. Nothing else after.”

  See you later for Nakatomi Night! The date time stamp put the message sent time at three-thirteen P.M.

  Jasmine stared down at the message. Savage recognized the desperation in the bereaved woman’s eyes. He’d seen parents of the deceased cling to the last item their dead child touched as if it were a direct connection to their soul. Savage recalled one distraught mother who’d vacuum-sealed the crust from the last slice of pizza her son had eaten before he’d been gunned down on their front porch. Over his tenure in Homicide, Savage had learned never to judge the grieving and had come to the conclusion each does it in their own unique way. Just as he’d done in his own life.
<
br />   And was still doing.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, what’s Nakatomi Night mean?” Savage asked, injecting himself into the conversation.

  Jasmine smiled weakly and looked past Littleton, making eye contact with Savage for the first time. “Olivia and I always watch Die Hard between Thanksgiving and Christmas. It was a tradition we started when she was a teenager and it just stuck. We were supposed to watch it last night.”

  Savage returned her smile. “The best traditions seem to be the unforeseen ones.”

  Littleton stepped back.

  “Mrs. Hatch, where does your daughter work?” Savage assumed control of the interview, as he sensed the seriousness of the situation was beyond the young deputy’s ability.

  “Nighthawk Engineering. She’s an administrative assistant for them. She’s been working there for several years now. She started when she was pregnant with Jake. They needed the extra income. She’s been there ever since.”

  “And you said it’s not unusual for her to work late?”

  “That’s right.” Jasmine Hatch’s eyes watered.

  “Why did you wait until this morning to report her missing?” Littleton asked. His pen at the ready to log what he deemed a pertinent question.

  Savage shot the younger deputy a contemptuous glance. The words used and the tone of their delivery sometimes meant the difference in a victim or witnesses’ level of cooperation. Littleton’s question, although appropriate, carried a hint of judgment. Savage knew this registered with the woman. He watched as she broke eye contact and looked down at the floor. The non-verbal communication was as loud as a scream to Savage, but Littleton seemed not to notice and stood ready to jot down her response.

  “I just thought—hoped she’d maybe met someone. She’s been so lonely since her husband’s death.” She looked down at the floor. “I ended up falling asleep earlier than usual last night, but when I got up this morning and saw she hadn’t messaged me, I got concerned. That’s when I called—”

  “You’ve already answered my next question,” Savage said. “Olivia’s husband passed, and you said she doesn’t have a boyfriend?”

  “No. She’s never even gone on a date in the years since he died. At least not that I know of. She barely has any friends left at all. All she does is work and spend time with the kids.”

  “Does she have a cellphone?” Savage asked.

  “Yes, an iPhone. I tried calling when I first woke up and it goes straight to voicemail. I’m guessing it’s either off or the battery is dead.”

  “Do you have her password?” Littleton asked. “Can you access her account?”

  “Yes. I can get that—I think. We have a family plan. I’m not very tech savvy. Her son, Jake, would probably be able to help me.”

  “Okay, we’ll need you to get that info for us.” Savage knew this information would be helpful, but more importantly, it gave Jasmine Hatch an opportunity to assist in the investigation. Even the most menial tasks provided a desperate parent with a modicum of relief and sense of purpose.

  Savage shook the grieving mother’s hand before turning to return to the office. “I think we have enough to get started. We’ll be in touch later today once we do a little digging around.” He paused for a second and waited for her to look him in the eye. “I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

  Jasmine Hatch said nothing. The tears began to fall freely now.

  “And don’t worry, ma’am, we’ll figure out what happened to your daughter,” Littleton said, falling in step behind Savage.

  The Sheriff and his deputy entered the secure office space, which consisted of six desks with low partitions separating each workspace. Apparently, there had at one time been hope the department might add to the staffing levels, but budgeting had not allowed for it. Two of the desks became dumping grounds for unfiled paperwork. Reorganizing the space was one of many things on Savage’s ever-growing to do list. He turned to face Littleton, who had plopped his lanky frame into the swivel chair at his desk.

  “We never do that.” Savage gave the young man a stern look.

  Littleton looked up from his notepad. “Do what?”

  “Give them false hope.”

  “False hope?”

  It was apparent by the flush of his cheeks; Littleton was worried he’d failed his first attempt at real police work. Savage softened his tone slightly to accommodate this teachable moment. “We never tell a parent or loved one we’re going to find the person responsible or solve the crime.”

  “Why?”

  “Because sometimes we don’t.”

  4

  The bump and skip of the wheels against the cracked concrete of the tarmac shook the plane’s cabin, violently stirring her from a poor attempt at something resembling sleep. Her stomach wretched as the momentum of the small puddle-jumper came to an abrupt stop. Rachel Hatch surveyed the older man slumped in the seat next to her. The jerky landing didn’t wake him, and his labored breathing rang out his contentedness. Hatch was jealous. Sleep, the truly deep and uninterrupted kind, had eluded her for years.

  “Thanks for taking the hop from Denver to Durango-La Plata Airport. If you’re visiting the Four Corners area for the first time, please enjoy all the scenic beauty. If this is your final destination, then welcome home.” The pilot’s words were barely audible over the whir of the propellers as they strained to slow their spin.

  Home? She hadn’t thought of it in those terms since leaving almost fifteen years ago. The Army had been her home. And now she was, by her own choosing, homeless.

  Hatch bent to retrieve the camouflage backpack resting at her feet. One of the few items she’d carried with her since leaving the service. All the rest, the variety of skills, lay dormant in the recesses of her mind. But they were always with her. She’d unpacked those items on occasion as situations dictated. Each time, the consequences were dire. And the last time nearly cost her life.

  She returned the seat upright and rested the sack on her lap. The man seated next to her was now awake, but just barely. He gave her an easy smile. She made a meager attempt at returning his gesture before turning her attention back to the bag. She unzipped one of the side compartments and snaked her scarred hand into the recess of its interior. Her fingers moved through the odds and ends until finding the cell phone. She never wanted one, but after much peer pressure, she caved, though she held her ground in not getting the latest smartphone. Instead, she opted for a flip phone with buttons she could feel. A small notch on the five-button meant she didn’t have to look at the thing to dial a number. Hatch rarely used it and had never once bothered to send a text message even though she’d received a few. Friends trying to reconnect after her discharge. None of consequence until recently.

  She felt the hard plastic of the compact phone and retrieved it. Flipping it open, she looked at the message.

  Rachel, come home. Olivia’s dead.

  Her mother was a woman of few words. It proved to be one of the many challenges of their relationship. Not the biggest, but definitely one that left any potential mending unfulfilled. Hatch wasn’t much better. Maybe their parallels were the wedge continually driving them apart like magnets of similar polarity, pushing them farther away from each other. Her dad’s death was the final nail in their dying relationship after which Hatch deemed it a lost cause and had written off the urge to mend their rift. It had been years since she’d heard her mother’s voice, and she wondered what impact it would have to see the woman again after so long. The many life miles between them would be hard to bridge.

  The man sitting next to her had eyed the phone’s message and the damaged knuckle in the hand in which she held it. She wasn’t in the habit of exposing any personal details about her life, especially to strangers. She folded the phone and tucked it into the front pocket of her jeans. He cleared his throat to speak. Hatch turned away and looked out the window. A silent rejection of his offering of condolence or whatever awkward conversation he planned to initiate. He must’ve take
n the hint because he never spoke.

  In a few minutes, they’d never see each other again. Most of the people in her life were in and out. A passenger on a plane or bus. A nearby patron seated at a diner counter or bar stool. Minimal connections. In her disconnect, she felt more balanced. After leaving the Army, moving forward was the only way Hatch was able to keep herself from looking back.

  Hatch reached into the seat pocket in front of her and removed a water bottle. The crinkled cheap plastic crackled as she swirled its remnants. Already dehydrated from the recycled air of the plane, she knew the high altitude and dry climate that she was about to set foot in would only serve to exacerbate the feeling. Drill sergeants and black hats always pushed water. Cut your arm. Drink water. Broken nose. Drink water. In battle, she pulled a piece of shrapnel from under her eye after returning a volley of gunfire. Hatch drank water.

  Movement in the cabin around her snapped her back, and she adjusted her body, angling her knees to the aisle. Hatch stood, bending to adjust for the low ceiling. At 5’10”, she was taller than most women. Her wire-tight sinewy frame gave her the appearance of being even taller. Most presumed her to be six feet, and because of this, she was used to the looks others gave her. In her constant battle for anonymity, her body drew unwanted attention. Where it came to her advantage was when she took on her male counterparts in all things physical. Although many had tried, few could best her.

  She slipped the straps of the backpack over her shoulder and then resumed waiting in a hunched position for the wave of passengers to make their single file exit.

  Hatch held the empty water bottle in her hand and moved into the aisle. The bobbled walk of people after airplane confinement always reminded her of a group of penguins marching to the sea. She shuffled along and paused momentarily upon reaching the door. The sun was strong, causing her to squint as the beams of light blinded her when she looked out onto the airport. She almost lost her footing on the narrow stairway extending down from the hatch door. Grabbing the railing, one grip stronger than the other, she traversed the steps to the hard tarmac. The smell of jet fuel permeated the air and she was grateful for a passing breeze.