Detective Jack Stratton Box Set

by Christopher Greyson

  “Sure,” he said.

  He was rewarded for his sacrifice when Replacement’s face lit up and she danced into the bathroom, clutching the dress to her chest.

  28

  What Are You Selling?

  The next morning, Jack awoke to the scent of lilac and the warmth of breath against his cheek. He turned his head and opened his eyes. Replacement’s face was right next to his.

  Sometime during the night, one of them must have broken through the blanket wall running down the middle of the bed—and now Replacement was pressed right up against him. One of her arms was around his waist, and her breath came in little puffs against his face.

  Alice . . . You’re easy to talk to. You’re real. Genuine.

  The fresh spring scent of the bedding mingled with the scent of her hair. She moaned softly, and her chin rose. Their lips were now only a breath apart. All Jack had to do was angle his head . . .

  Oh, man. Don’t. Don’t.

  Jack tried not to breathe as he scooted backward and out of the bed. He almost ran for the bathroom.

  Seriously, stupid, don’t do it. I’m the only friend she has. If it didn’t work out . . .

  Jack washed his face and changed. He wrote a quick note to let her know he was going for a drive, and left it on the pillow. As silently as he could, he gathered up his shoes, wallet, and keys, and slipped out the door.

  Go for a ride. Think.

  As he headed out of the inn, the chill in the crisp morning air was refreshing. He breathed in deeply. The first rays of dawn lightened the sky, and mist clung to the ground and crept up the trees. Jack jogged for the car. It was the type of morning that made him want to run. The gravel crunched under his feet, but all around him was still.

  He paused when he reached the small blue Bug. It was perfect for Replacement, but, man, he wanted his Impala back. He hoped the mechanic would have it ready soon.

  The little town was asleep as Jack drove through the streets. He tried to remember whether there was a coffee shop near the inn, but couldn’t think of any.

  Oh well. Might as well get this over with.

  Jack knew where he needed to go, even though he didn’t really want to go there. Not today. Never. But he had to.

  He headed for Buckmaster Pond.

  Get your mind back on track, Jack. Think. Facts. Patty asked to meet him. He headed there. Terry put her up to it, so . . . would he have picked up on that? Was he paranoid like me, or did he just blindly rush out there? What was he thinking? What would I do if I was a seventeen-year-old boy and my girlfriend called me to meet her at night? Hell, I’d get out there as fast as I could, peeling my clothes off on the way.

  Jack paid close attention to the route as he went. About a half a mile from the pond, a little auxiliary fire station stood set back from the road, but otherwise there wasn’t much to see.

  No businesses out here. Huge sections with no buildings at all. A few scattered homes, but they look new, so there would have been even fewer back then. Overall the place must have been pretty deserted.

  Jack reached the turnoff to the pond and eased down the narrow road. The fog was dense here, nearer the water, and it clung to the base of the pines.

  This can’t be much more than a mile from Steven’s house. Police report said he didn’t take his bike. It would have been an easy walk for him.

  Jack couldn’t see the pond from the parking lot, but there was a little path heading off into the trees. As he stepped out of the car, he dug his hands into his pockets, and his left hand pressed against his gun. Shivering, he jogged down the path. When the large rock he had seen in the crime scene photos came into view, he stopped.

  The trees were larger, but he was sure this was the place.

  The place where my father died.

  Jack exhaled. His breath came out in a puff, and he watched it dissipate.

  It must have been Patty who called 911. But there were no cell phones back then.

  The hair on the back of Jack’s neck rose. So where would she have called from?

  He looked around. Across the pond, through the misty trees, he could just make out a little house with its lights on. He climbed onto a rock that extended out over the water. From there, he could clearly see the small home.

  That’s where she’d have gone.

  He pulled out his cell phone. 8:30.

  My mom would kill me for even thinking of knocking on someone’s door this early, but their lights are on. Someone’s up.

  Jack ran around the pond, following a faint path through the trees, until he reached the backyard of the little house. It was a small white cottage, and through a big bay window he could see the light on in the kitchen. Staying at the edges of the lawn, he made his way around the front. He followed a stone walkway to the front door, and, after taking a deep breath, he knocked. And waited. He looked out onto the empty street and back to his feet. He was about to give up when the door opened.

  A middle-aged woman in sweatpants and a T-shirt smiled broadly as she looked Jack up and down. “Hello,” she purred, leaning against the doorframe.

  “Hi. My name is Jack Stratton, and I was wondering if I might ask you a couple of questions.”

  “I’d love to help you out, but what’re you selling?”

  Jack shifted his weight. “Nothing. I’m not a salesman. Actually, I had a question, but you’re far too young to have lived here twenty-six years ago.”

  “Honey, I like the way you talk.” She grinned from ear to ear and shook her mane of red hair. “I hate to admit it, but yeah, I did live here then. I’d have been, like, nine.”

  “Who’s there?” a woman called from inside.

  “It’s fine, Mom. There’s a young man asking for directions.”

  “Shut the door or invite him in. It’s freezing.”

  “Your clock is ticking.” The redhead winked. “Ask away.”

  “Do you remember the night when Steven Ritter was killed?”

  The woman’s face went white, and her smile vanished. She cleared her throat. “I was little. I don’t know anything about it beyond that.” Her hand moved to the doorknob.

  “Did a girl come here that night and use your phone?”

  The woman’s eyes went wide and her neck lengthened. A second later, she shook her head. “No,” she blurted out. “Nothing like that happened that night. I’m sorry, but I need to go.”

  “Abbey? Shut the door.” An old woman walked into the hallway. When she noticed Jack, she stopped and pulled her robe tightly around herself. A hand went to her curled hair.

  “Please, ma’am. I need to know. Steven Ritter was my father.”

  The old woman stared at him. Jack could see the debate raging inside her—whether to talk to him or not.

  He turned his palms out and looked directly at the older woman as he repeated, “Please.”

  “Let him in, Abbey,” she whispered.

  Abbey stepped aside.

  “Thank you.” Jack lowered his head as he entered.

  The inside of the house looked as if it would be better suited to Florida, with its beige floor tiles and white walls. The old woman shuffled to the kitchen, which had the big bay window Jack had seen from the backyard, giving a great view of the pond.

  “Do you want a coffee?” The old woman sat down. “That one has cream and sugar.” She pointed to a cup on the table. “I put it out for Abbey, but she hasn’t touched it yet. You don’t mind, do you, dear?” she asked her daughter.

  “Of course not.” Abbey remained in the doorway.

  “Thank you.” Jack sat down across from the old woman.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “My name is Jack Stratton. Steven Ritter was my father.”

  The woman reached for her own coffee cup, but her hands trembled, so she quickly put them back in her lap.

  “You were home that night?” Jack asked.

  The old woman nodded.

  “Did a young girl come here and make a phone call?”
>
  Abbey and her mother exchanged a quick glance, then the old woman shook her head. “No.”

  “Ma’am, I know Patricia Cole called the police from here that night.”

  The old woman glared at Jack. “I’m sorry about your father, but don’t go calling me a liar.”

  “But you are lying. Patty is my mother.” Jack let the words hang in the air.

  The woman slumped in her chair. “Oh, son. I’m so sorry.” She looked closer at Jack and leaned back again. “Oh, dear Lord. Patty and Steven?” Tears welled up in her eyes. “I’m Patty’s godmother. Patty’s mother was my best friend. I promised her that I’d look after Patty.”

  “Can you please tell me what happened? Start with the first thing you remember.”

  The old woman looked at her daughter again, then sighed. “Patty did show up that night,” she said quietly. “She was covered in blood and pounding on the door. I just about went out of my mind. She was screaming that someone was stabbed. But she didn’t have anything to do with it. I just know it.”

  “How?”

  “How what?”

  “How do you know she had nothing to do with it?”

  The old woman looked at Jack as if he had four heads. “She’s your mother. Don’t you know your mother better than that?”

  Jack closed his eyes. “No, I don’t. Last week, I saw her for the first time in almost twenty years. And now I’m looking for answers. When Patty came to the door, was anyone with her? Did you see or hear a car?”

  “No. She was alone. She kept saying he was hurt. She called the fire department for an ambulance. She was hysterical. The EMTs rushed right out to the pond. We watched from the window until they left, but the police stayed a long time. Too long. I knew it was bad because of that.”

  “Why didn’t you go to the police?”

  “To report what? That Patty found a stabbed boy? They’d think she had something to do with it. I knew she didn’t. Deep down, Patty was a good girl. She just found Steven that way. Besides, Patty’s father was a bastard. A meaner man never lived. I don’t know what he’d have done to her.”

  “What happened after?”

  “I drove her home. I made her swear never to talk about it. But Patty ran away a couple of months later. I haven’t seen her since. Is she okay?”

  Jack ignored the question. “Can you please try to remember if she said anything else? Anything at all?”

  “She didn’t.”

  “Did she mention any names?”

  “No.” The woman pulled her robe tight. “She didn’t have anything to do with it. I know it. I knew Patty since she was a little girl, but if I thought she had anything to do with it or knew something, I’d have had her talk to the police.”

  Jack stood. The old woman remained sitting, but she reached out and grabbed his wrist.

  “Can you tell her that I hope she’s well?”

  Jack’s head spun. The old woman thinks she did the right thing. But if Patty had only gone to the police, she might have gotten the help she needed. He nodded. “Thanks for the coffee,” he muttered.

  Abbey escorted him back to the front door.

  “Thank you for your time,” Jack said.

  “I’m sorry about your dad. I didn’t know him, but I liked Patty. She was always real nice to me.”

  “Did you see anything that night?”

  Abbey shook her head. “I saw the emergency lights at the pond that night, but when Patty came later, my mom made me go to bed.”

  “Well, thanks.” Jack reached into his pocket and took out one of his cards. “If you can remember anything else, please give me a call.”

  “I will. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Jack walked down the faint path toward the pond. The sunlight gleamed on the water, and Jack gazed across to the opposite shore. A hawk rose up out of the trees. It rose high overhead and then swooped low and flew along the bank.

  The morning was beautiful, but Jack felt like a shadow passed over his soul. Something felt wrong. Like a child afraid of the woods, he stood with his hands thrust deep in his pockets and stared down the trail.

  The warning of the little girl in his dream echoed somewhere in his mind. “You’re going to die.”

  Jack was afraid. But he didn’t handle fear the way most people did. He didn’t look at fear the same way, either.

  He closed his eyes and gave the feeling a second to wash over him. He felt his heart speed up and he swallowed. Then he yanked his hands out of his pockets and marched forward.

  For Jack, fear was an action, not an emotion. And for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.

  After a few steps, he broke into a run. Some people react to fear by running away. Not Jack. He always chose to run straight at it—and make fear, fear him.

  29

  Two Choices

  The cool air on Jack’s face felt wonderful, and the rhythm of his feet on the path urged him on. The pond’s surface was absolutely still. No wind blew the branches of the trees.

  When he got around to the other side, he climbed up on a rock and looked out over the pond. The water was crystal clear. He could see at least fifteen feet down, but the bottom was still murky.

  A streak of air whizzed past his head, followed by a distant, loud crack. From his years in the Army, Jack’s body reacted instantly. He leapt forward and landed on his belly on a large rock, then rolled off and scrambled behind it. Another shot whooshed overhead, followed by another distant crack.

  Shot came from the parking lot.

  His gun was already in his hand. He was lying on his stomach with the rock between him and the shooter. A rifle versus a pistol—he knew he’d lose. That left him two choices: run away or flank.

  He looked at the slope of the ground and the small gully that could provide cover. He’d be exposed while he crossed the path, but the trees would help obscure him. He sprinted to the left, staying low, and slid to a stop behind a large pine.

  Nothing. No shot.

  He dashed from the pine to a huge oak. He forced himself to exhale slowly to get his breathing under control. Then he dashed forward to the next tree, pressed his back against the rough bark, and listened.

  Nothing. Damn. Now I don’t know where they are. Are they rabbiting, or lining up for a clear shot?

  In the distance, he heard a car engine. He broke into a run. His muscles strained, and his legs burned, but he sprinted as fast as he could for the road. Branches tore at his face and clothes, but he pushed on till he burst out of the woods. The fleeing car was already out of sight. He debated about running for the Bug, but decided against it. The shooter was long gone.

  Jack screamed at the sky.

  30

  Just a Fish

  Jack walked back to the parking lot, reliving the echo of the gunshots and his relief at being alive with each step. His skin went cold when he pictured himself as a stationary target, a sitting duck, and he was struck once again by the familiar question every soldier asks at one time or another: Why didn’t I die today?

  As he drove back to the main road, all he wanted to do was keep going. If only he could take his Impala out, just open her up, and let her run. Instead, the hum of the Bug’s little motor made him feel trapped. As he leaned back in the seat, he felt a slight tremble in his leg.

  No. Not now.

  He gripped the steering wheel with one sweaty hand and frantically rolled down his window with the other. The glass seemed to move in slow motion, but Jack needed it open now. He needed to feel the wind.

  Please, not now.

  He got it partway down and pressed his face against the cold glass with desperation, as if the car were filling with water. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes.

  Jack!

  His foot was jammed down on the gas. The Bug was flying down the road, and he was just a passenger in a pilotless ship. He knew his eyes were closed, but he didn’t know whether his body refused to obey him or whether his mind refused to give the command to
stop.

  He screamed and slammed his foot down on the brake. Everything not fastened down in the Bug flew forward. His body jerked into the seat belt and his chin jammed against his chest, and still his eyes remained closed. The force of the deceleration had pushed him against the steering wheel. He sat there, panting into it.

  As grief overtook him, his body finally relaxed. He slumped over the wheel, his foot slipped off the brake, and the pedal came back up with a faint thump.

  He opened his eyes.

  The road was empty. Jack let the car roll forward, and steered it so it was mostly on the side of the road. His hand continued to shake as he shut the engine off.

  You stupid idiot.

  He pulled the rearview mirror over so he could glare at himself. He expected his own eyes to be filled with condemnation, hate even. But as he stared at his reflection, he didn’t see disgust at his weakness—he saw concern.

  I’m going to get someone else killed. What’s wrong with me? I’m fine when someone shoots at me. I’m not afraid while I chase a guy with a gun. But afterward I freak out?

  Jack looked up at the ceiling.

  I can deal with it. I can . . .

  He put his head in his hands and rubbed his face.

  Please, God . . . Please, God, help me.

  Jack pulled into the inn’s parking lot just as the chief’s Crown Vic was rolling in. Both men got out of their cars.

  “You sure know how to get people riled up,” Dennis Wilson said, walking over. “I was having breakfast and nearly choked when I opened my paper.” He handed Jack a newspaper.

  Jack opened it up to the headline: “Hunting for His Father’s Killer.” The subhead added: “Policeman son has a new lead in the twenty-seven-year-old murder at Buckmaster Pond.”

  Jack swore.

  “You can say that again.” Dennis tapped the paper with his finger. “Apparently, ‘The son of Steven Ritter is set to break this cold case wide open with new information.’”