Courageous: A Novel

by Randy Alcorn

  Nathan rolled his eyes. Not a rookie anymore?

  In the front yard, Adam and Shane approached the porch. Shane talked into his shoulder mic, letting the other team know what was happening in front. The window blinds fluttered.

  “I got a feeling about this one,” Adam said to Shane, trying to watch the house and the gangsters on the lawn next door at the same time.

  “I’m feeling it too.”

  Adam checked his radio. “3d, you got the back?”

  “10-4,” he heard Nathan say.

  They walked up the steps cautiously. Adam hoped he appeared more confident than he felt. After seventeen years, why aren’t these kinds of moments getting easier? He remembered something Jeff Henderson had said: “Confidence is what you feel when you don’t understand the situation.”

  Adam knocked. A woman opened the door. She could have been twenty or forty. Crack did that—doubled a person’s age.

  “Yeah?”

  “Hello, ma’am, we’re from the Dougherty County Sheriff’s Department. We have a warrant for the arrests of Clyde and Jamar Holloman.”

  The woman quickly exited, throwing her hands up. “I ain’t gettin’ in the middle of this. I ain’t even supposed to be here.”

  Smart lady, Adam thought. She’s done this drill before.

  Adam and Shane stepped slowly into the dark house, each holding a flashlight in one hand, free hands on their guns.

  The house was a mess, clothes and food wrappers everywhere. Next to the couch Adam saw a crack pipe and a smashed Coke can.

  “They use the same interior decorator you do, Shane.”

  “Just watch my back, Mitchell.”

  Adam turned off the television. If the Hollomans were hiding in the house, he needed to hear them, not a mattress commercial.

  Without the TV’s interference, Adam could hear the ceiling creak. He pointed his flashlight upward and made his way to the hall. Shane backed in behind him, keeping his eyes on the front door.

  Adam noticed a string hanging from a pull-down attic staircase. It swung gently.

  “Shane,” he said, pointing. Adam walked to the other end of the hall so both sides were covered.

  He tapped the ceiling with his flashlight.

  “Clyde and Jamar Holloman, we have a warrant for your arrest. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. I suggest you come on down.”

  The creaking continued. Adam nodded at Shane. They both drew their guns, trigger fingers on the frames.

  Adam took the string in his left hand and mouthed, “One, two, three.” On three, he pulled the cord.

  The stairs unfolded. Shane aimed both gun and flashlight into the attic. He saw nothing.

  “This is your last chance,” Shane said. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be!”

  The creaking continued. In the ten seconds or so he had to think it through, Adam wondered if they should call for K9 backup. If they sent Sawyer the patrol dog into the attic, they’d run no risk to a human officer. But it might be a thirty-minute wait.

  If Shane got blown away when he stuck his head up in the attic, Adam would always regret it. But it was his job to make the call.

  The same line of thinking ran through Shane’s mind, so when Adam gave the signal, he swallowed hard, then with gun ready, took a few steps up the ladder and popped his head through the attic opening.

  Daylight shone through the gable vents of the attic. Something moved. Instinctively Shane’s finger jumped to the trigger. Three feet from him stood a black boy maybe eleven years old.

  “Oh, man.” Shane lowered the gun, thinking about what would have happened if he’d squeezed that trigger. “What are you doing up here, kid?”

  “Uncle Clyde told me to walk around.”

  Adam called up from below, “Where is your uncle Cly—?”

  A downstairs closet door flew open, and two young men leaped out.

  “Back door!” Adam yelled.

  David heard the call from inside and stepped closer to the door just as it flew open. One of the two-legged freight trains ran him down. Both the Holloman brothers charged toward a neighbor’s yard at full speed.

  Nathan took off on foot to chase them as David pulled himself to his feet.

  “Get the car!” Nathan screamed.

  Adam bolted out the back door and joined Nathan in the foot chase. Clyde and Jamar jumped the same fence, then split up. Nathan and Adam cleared the fence and continued the chase separately.

  Shane pulled out in the squad car, listening to Adam bark off street names.

  Clyde Holloman ran between houses like a scalded dog, Nathan close behind and gaining a little ground. Cutting through a cluttered backyard, Clyde pushed over anything he could, hoping to trip up Nathan, who dodged a bucket, a lawn chair, and a garbage can.

  Meanwhile Jamar sprinted across a neighborhood street and into other yards. He ran on one side of trees while Adam ran on the other, trying to close the gap. As Jamar glanced behind to see if Adam was there, he slowed a little. When they both cleared the length of the trees, Adam, a couple of feet behind him, reached out and nearly grabbed him.

  Just a little faster and I’d have had him!

  “Shane! 700 block, Sheffield! North! North!”

  Shane turned the car sharply, caught sight of Adam in pursuit, and grabbed the radio. “Units in pursuit of a black male wearing black do-rag, brown sleeveless tee, gray cargo shorts . . . heading northwest on the 700 block of Sheffield.”

  In the other cruiser, David raced down a neighborhood road, searching for Nathan, when he heard his partner yell over the radio, “Thomson! 400 block of Hartford! David, help me out!”

  David, alone in the car, was bewildered. “Hartford . . . where’s Hartford?”

  Adam followed Jamar into another backyard. Jamar ran through an open carport, overturning trash cans and bicycles as he passed. Adam jumped over and around them, out of breath.

  As Jamar came to the next street, Shane skidded, nearly hitting him. Jamar changed directions toward another yard. Shane leaped out of the car. “Switch!”

  Adam jumped in the driver’s seat and took off, breathing heavily. “I didn’t sign up for hurdles.”

  Nathan chased Clyde Holloman down a side street and up to a tall fence. Clyde hoisted himself over. Nathan climbed the fence carefully to see what awaited him on the other side and saw Clyde sprint off again.

  Nathan paused to breathe, then grabbed his radio. “Officer in foot pursuit on 300 block of Oakview northbound. Deputy Thomson, where are you?”

  David turned down another road, studying signs. “Oakview?” David spoke aloud. “I haven’t even found Hartford!”

  Jamar still sprinted, but his tank was running low. He didn’t see Shane in pursuit. Hoping he had left the cops in the dust, he spotted a small shed and ran behind it. He squatted down and peered around the corner, trying to catch his breath. From his waistband he pulled a baggie of crack and stuffed it under some bricks at the base of the shed.

  Without warning, Jamar felt two darts pierce him, one between the shoulder blades, the other at the low center of his back. He convulsed and screamed, face on the ground, eating dirt. He felt like he was strapped to the electric chair and someone had thrown the switch.

  Shane rolled Jamar over and handcuffed him. “Always has to be the hard way, doesn’t it?”

  Shane noticed the plastic drug bag. “Diggin’ a deeper hole for yourself, aren’t you?” He grabbed his radio. “I’ve got the suspect 10-95. Adam, help Nathan if you can.”

  “10-4. Good job, Shane!”

  Adam turned onto Oakview, the last location he’d heard Nathan call. Adam spotted Nathan jogging along the street ahead of him, turning his head like a searchlight. He knew it meant Nathan had lost Clyde somewhere. Adam pulled up alongside Nathan, who slowed and jumped in the car.

  “Where is he?”

  Nathan took a deep breath. “Next street over, maybe? I think he’s circling back toward Sheffield.”

&nbs
p; They drove down the side street and turned back on Sheffield, then spotted Clyde running perpendicular to them toward an intersection ahead.

  Adam floored it and called, “Slingshot?”

  “Do it!” Nathan positioned his hand on the door handle.

  As Adam drew near, Clyde turned and saw the patrol car, then changed direction. Adam got within thirty feet of Clyde and hit the brakes while turning the wheel left. The car slid to the side. Nathan jumped out, hitting the ground in a sprint.

  He used the speed from the car’s momentum to catch Clyde in four seconds, tackle him, and slam him to the ground. Clyde lay motionless except for his heaving chest. Nathan drew Clyde’s wrists behind him and locked the handcuffs.

  “How far you have to make me chase you, man? You’re killin’ me.”

  Clyde still gulped air while Nathan pulled him up. “Come on; let’s go. Got a reservation for you at the Cinder Block Hotel. They’re keepin’ the lights on for you.”

  Nathan walked him toward Adam’s car. As Adam opened the back door, he nodded at Nathan. “Nice wheels.”

  “Thanks. They got a workout, that’s for sure. My bad toes are killin’ me.”

  David drove up with Shane in the passenger seat and Jamar in the back.

  “Welcome to the party,” Adam said. “What’d you do, David, go out for a burger?”

  “Traffic ticket,” Shane said. “They pulled him over for drivin’ too slow.”

  David’s face was cherry red. “Sorry, guys. My bad. I got turned around.”

  Shane walked to Adam’s car, passing Nathan and flashing him a look that said, I like my partner better than yours.

  Nathan walked over to David, locking his eyes on him. “Man, you gotta learn the streets. I needed you.”

  “Yeah. I know the other parts of town. I’m just not as familiar with this . . . area.”

  “Well, I grew up in an area like this, but the difference is, I know that one and this one and the other parts too. And if I didn’t, I’d be studying it every night.”

  “Look, I said I was sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  As the four men got into their cars, a broad-shouldered man with the body of an NFL linebacker watched at a distance. Sitting by himself in the driver’s seat of his dark-green Cadillac DeVille, TJ watched the two officers in the first car get in, in front of his man Clyde. Then he saw the other two talking, ready to haul off Jamar. TJ recognized the black cop hangin’ with the crackers. He was the one who’d messed up his 211 when he’d claimed that sleek whip at the gas station.

  “Think you all that, don’t you, little man? You all up in my grill now.”

  TJ made a gesture with his left hand as if he were shooting the deputies. “187,” he whispered to himself, hood lingo for murder.

  He popped his ’lac into gear, then stopped to inventory his arsenal, each weapon hidden in its own place under the seat. He reached over and pulled out his old deuce-five auto, which he’d used to kill a crack competitor last spring. He knew he should get rid of the gun, but it had sentimental value, a gift from his older brother Vince, now serving life at Metro State Prison in Atlanta.

  Next TJ pulled from under his right leg the Smith & Wesson that he’d used to rob a convenience store two years ago, after he’d been on the outs from Lee State Prison three days. He reached under the seat beneath his left leg and grabbed his .357.

  TJ was the son of no man and the father of a gang of men. He could do whatever he wanted. With these cops stepping on his territory, maybe he’d give them something to remember him by.

  Chapter Five

  Adam sat in the driver’s seat, ignoring the perp. Once he got the outlaws to lockup, they were no longer his responsibility. Good riddance . . . until he saw them on the street again way too soon because of overcrowded jails and merry-go-round justice.

  As if reading his mind, Shane said, “These guys aren’t scared of jail. Why should they be? Three hots and a cot. This is Rome, and the barbarians are winning.”

  Adam sighed. “They say the repeat rate for juvenile offenders in Dougherty County is 80 percent. Can you believe that?”

  “Sure. They can be in and out of the detention centers within a month. They learn new crime skills while they’re there. Thirty days later they’re back on the streets practicing their newly acquired expertise.”

  Adam glanced in the rearview mirror, studying the boy in the backseat. “How old are you, Clyde? Eighteen?”

  Clyde shot him a two-barreled scowl. “Nineteen.”

  “Who do you live with?”

  “My auntie. Gonna arrest her too?”

  “Where’s your daddy?”

  Clyde stared at him like he was crazy. “Ain’t got no daddy.”

  Shane turned to Adam. “Why’d you even ask?”

  Adam thought for a while but remained silent.

  An hour later Nathan drove the patrol car with David beside him. “Something bothering you?”

  “Nah.”

  “Well, quiet is okay. But if something’s bugging you and you want to talk about it, feel free.”

  “I’m good.”

  Fifteen minutes passed while David remained mute despite Nathan’s small talk. On the outside, David Thomson was finally making something of his life. Inside it was all loose ends, without anything to tie them together. David’s guilt followed him everywhere, gnawing on his mind like a dog on a bone.

  Nathan turned to David. “Ever been to Aunt Bea’s Diner?”

  “No.”

  “Hope it’s still there.”

  The building was an urban planning nightmare, unmolested by the wheels of progress.

  “Welcome to the diner time forgot,” Nathan said as they strode through the door.

  David looked at a table and imagined it would take a crowbar to remove the syrup bottles from the lazy Susan. He walked back to where he could see the grill, wondering if the kitchen harbored an Ebola culture. He was relieved that, though ancient, Aunt Bea’s seemed clean.

  They ordered from a menu that appeared to have been produced by a Remington typewriter in the seventies.

  Meanwhile, David seemed determined to remain skeptical. But by the time he was three bites into the cheeseburger, his attitude had been realigned.

  Some guy who looked like he’d never left Woodstock, inhaling through the sixties and never exhaling till the seventies, popped a quarter into the Rock-Ola. On came “Mr. Tambourine Man.”

  “Tell me about your former partner,” Nathan said.

  “Why?”

  “If you were taking someone’s place at a job, wouldn’t you want to know about him?”

  David put on the plate what had nearly been his last bite of cheeseburger. He begrudgingly wiped his fingers with a napkin. “His name was Jack Bryant.”

  Nathan waited. Nothing came.

  “And?”

  “What more do you want to know?”

  “Why is this so difficult? Ask me about my last partner and I’ll tell you all about him. Seymour James. Fifty-three years old. Wife and three kids, like me. Smart guy and funny. Coaches Little League. Orders his cheeseburgers rare. Seattle Seahawks fan, but the Falcons are gradually winning him over.”

  “Bryant and I didn’t always . . . get along very well.”

  “Why?”

  “I was a rookie; that’s why!” David raised his voice a few decibels too loud. Four people turned and stared.

  “Okay,” Nathan said. “I get it. Why did he transfer?”

  “He and his wife split up. So he moved back to Chicago to go into business with a friend.”

  “No longer a cop?”

  “It’s some kind of security business.”

  “No kids?”

  “Two.”

  “And he moved to Chicago?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So now he doesn’t see his kids?”

  “I think he took them for a week this summer.”

  “Well, good for him,” Nathan said with a frown.

 
; “Hey, he’s an okay guy.”

  “I would think an okay guy would either stay at his job or find one where he could stay near his kids.”

  “Why are you judging him like that? You don’t even know him.”

  “No, I don’t. He was probably a good cop, and I’ll bet he’s a great security guy. All I know is, those things aren’t as important as being a good husband and a father.”

  “His wife left him.”

  “Was that because he was such a great husband?”

  “Look, man, what’s it to you?”

  “I’m talking about a guy being there for his wife, making it work. And if you’re separated, being there for your kids so they can still see you several times a week. At least they don’t have to say, ‘My dad left me.’”

  Both men were adrift in thought. When the huckleberry pie with French vanilla ice cream appeared, it brought them back to dry land.

  Nathan took a deep breath. “David, you’re right. I didn’t know your partner. And I shouldn’t judge him. I’m sorry. It’s a sore spot; my mom never had a decent husband, and I never had a dad.”

  David restricted his eye contact to his steadily disappearing huckleberry pie. The conversation was over.

  In the Mitchells’ backyard, Emily threw a tennis ball to Maggie, her year-old golden retriever.

  “Can’t I let her in, Mama? She won’t make a mess.”

  “We’ve been over this, Emily. Your father let you get Maggie on the condition that she can’t be a house dog.”

  “Couldn’t she just visit the house and sleep in the backyard?”

  “No dogs in the house. That’s your father’s rule. And his father’s rule before him.”

  Adam stepped out on the porch. “Come inside, Emily.”

  “I want to play with Maggie.” She gazed at her mother, then at her father. “Does it say in the Bible that you can’t let dogs in the house?”

  “Well, no. I don’t think so . . .”

  Emily smiled broadly. “Then can she sleep in my room?”

  “No. I told you; we can’t have an indoor dog.”

  Maggie drew up close to Adam’s feet, nuzzling him. Emily scratched her under the ear while the dog emitted groans of ecstasy. There was nothing Maggie loved more than snuggling close to Emily. Victoria had earned Maggie’s affection by grooming her with a stainless steel brush. An occasional pizza-flavored toy hadn’t hurt Maggie’s feelings, either. And though he did nothing to encourage her, the golden hadn’t given up on Adam.