Bill Hopkins - Judge Rosswell Carew 02 - River Mourn

by Bill Hopkins

  Scattered raindrops fell from dark clouds. A breeze blew up the hill, bringing ashes from the remains of the wildfire, tainting the air with the stale smell of burnt forest.

  Rosswell plodded forward, hoping he made no noise although with the ringing in his ears he remained uncertain if his progress sounded like a mouse or an elephant.

  At the top of the hill, he pinpointed Jim Bill through the binoculars. The lawman was poised at the sunroom’s door with Nathaniel blocking it. Both parties made heated gestures. No doubt Jim Bill demanded entry to investigate the raucous sounds he heard while Nathaniel countered that the noises were yet another false alarm, caused by a faulty system. Nathaniel didn’t appear armed.

  Turk, cradling something that Rosswell couldn’t make out, rushed to Nathaniel’s back. Turk also began gesticulating and yelling. That’s when Turk’s pistol became visible.

  Jim Bill punched Turk in the chest with his forefinger. Turk responded by latching onto Jim Bill’s finger, bending it backward, causing Jim Bill to kneel. Astounded that the cop had made such a simple error as letting a bad guy grab his hand, Rosswell focused the binoculars on Nathaniel, who merely stood there, as if waiting for Turk to do something else.

  Turk did something else.

  He shot Jim Bill.

  Rosswell drew his pistol and bolted toward Jim Bill, gaining the doorway of the sunroom in seconds. The fire marshal didn’t move. The 1911, even though shaking, remained pointed at Nathaniel. “Talk to me!” Still no response from Jim Bill, although Rosswell noted he was still breathing. No apparent bleeding. That was a good sign. In his peripheral vision, Rosswell glimpsed Turk making circles in the air with the hand holding the gun.

  Jim Bill seemed to force his eyes open. “Damn. That hurts. My chest.”

  Amazed that Nathaniel hadn’t stirred a lick, Rosswell said, “Hands behind your head. Turk, drop your weapon and stick those hands behind your head.”

  Both feet planted far apart, Nathaniel never moved but merely stood gawking at Rosswell and then down at Jim Bill. Turk continued making circles in the air with his gun.

  Rosswell said, “Both y’all, I need to see those hands behind your head. Now.”

  Turk, with the remaining bits of his brain doubtless pummeled by meth, made an about-face, then began racing through the hallways, screeching, firing the gun until it was empty. Rosswell hoped that the doper hadn’t hit any of the staff or residents, now flooding the hallways and streaming from the building at every exit. The grounds of the villa rapidly descended into a small mob scene.

  A crackle sounded under what Rosswell knew was Jim Bill’s Kevlar vest. Jim Bill spoke with difficulty. “Squelch break. Three shorts. Pause. One short.”

  “I already called 9-1-1.”

  “Belt.” Jim Bill gasped, breathed shallowly a couple of times. “And suspenders. Don’t argue.”

  Rosswell found the radio, clicked the mike open three times, waited a heartbeat, then clicked it once more. It had to be the code to the backup officers standing by to get their butts on the scene. In the distance, sirens blasted from every direction.

  “Jim Bill, they’re coming. I don’t see any blood. That’s good.”

  “Feels like a baseball bat hit my chest.” Jim Bill rolled to his side. “Don’t let Nathaniel escape.”

  Rosswell jumped up and stuck his pistol in Nathaniel’s face. “You’re under arrest for murder. But I’d love to see you try to escape. I’ll blast your ugly white mug all over creation. Run.”

  Why the hell isn’t Nathaniel reacting?

  Never uttering a word, Nathaniel scuttled off to his left into another room.

  Rosswell, cursing himself for not shooting when he had a clear shot, chased Nathaniel from the sunroom into what looked like the library of a British manor house in one of those old-time movies. In the middle of the room sat the largest wooden desk Rosswell had ever seen.

  Nathaniel Dahlbert slowly rose from behind the center of the desk. “It would be impolite of me not to say good-bye.”

  Both of Rosswell’s shaking hands were necessary to raise the gun and aim it at Nathaniel’s heart. “I’m going to kill you.” Rosswell, unable to pull the trigger, blinked sweat from his eyes.

  “You can’t shoot. Your heart and brain are open to me but closed to you.” Nathaniel raised both hands high, although it didn’t look much like a surrender. The white man with the orange hair smiled, although it held no friendliness.

  “Who was the doctor who helped you kidnap Tina?”

  “Why…Doctor Death.”

  Rosswell’s finger begged to pull the trigger, but he held himself in check, giving Nathaniel one final warning. “I’ll shoot you if you don’t march right out here in front of me with your hands up and drop to the floor spread eagle where I can—”

  An explosion with the decibel level of a stick of dynamite shook the room. Instantly following the blast, a flash of light rivaling the sun ignited before Rosswell’s eyes, followed by a plume of thick, blue smoke. A stink, not of gunpowder, but of a smell Rosswell remembered from the times he’d tried barbecuing outside on an old-fashioned grill, only to ignite the aluminum foil covering it.

  Nathaniel had set up a charge of magician’s flash powder. Potassium perchlorate and ground aluminum dust. And lots of it. Plus one hell of a percussion blast. Rosswell wondered if he was deaf as well as blind. The explosion temporarily disoriented him. The moment he regained his sight, Rosswell realized Nathaniel had vanished. Throwing himself across the desk, Rosswell tumbled to the floor, grasping the lip of a hole a second before his momentum would’ve hurtled him down into darkness.

  Although the smoke had cleared and his flashlight pierced the gloom, Rosswell couldn’t see the bottom of the pit that had swallowed Nathaniel.

  Cupping his hands behind his ears and yelling, he felt relief that he could still hear, although the inside of his head sounded like a convention of insane hand bell ringers.

  Nathaniel was gone. Time to head for Tina.

  “Having problems, Judge?”

  Rosswell jumped to his feet and whirled around. A small man with a buzz cut and wearing a diamond in his right earlobe aimed a Colt Anaconda at Rosswell’s stomach.

  “Philbert?” Rosswell gaped at the stainless steel pistol. “That’s a .44 magnum.”

  “Sure is.”

  “You elephant hunting?”

  Before Philbert could answer, a big guy with square shoulders and bulging eyes lumbered through the door with an identical pistol pointed at the same spot on Rosswell’s body.

  “Theodore?”

  Philbert motioned with his gun. “Where’s Nathaniel?”

  “Down in that hole behind the desk. A pretty nifty escape route, if you ask me.”

  Theodore said, “We’re not asking you.”

  Philbert strolled around the desk, leaned over the hole, and whistled. “That goes all the way to China.” He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Anyone down there?” Silence answered him.

  Theodore glanced around the room. “Judge, are you the only one in here?”

  “Yes, except for you and Philbert.”

  Theodore hadn’t lowered his gun. “Where’s Jim Bill Evans?”

  Were Theodore and Philbert bad guys or good guys? Rosswell took a chance they were the latter. “At the door of the sunroom. He’s injured. I used his radio to send a signal. An ambulance should be on the way.”

  The ugly stick, a nurse, walked in the room.

  Rosswell said, “I know you.”

  “You should. I worked in the hospital in Marble Hill, taking care of your wife.”

  “We’re engaged. We haven’t been married yet.”

  “Congratulations.”

  Rosswell tapped his head. “You’re Gerry Middleton!”

  “No.”

  “Bobo’s wife!”

  “Who’s he?”

  “He’s the prosecutor of Cape Girardeau County.” Rosswell studied her closely. “Priscilla Brewster. That’s what your n
ametag read when you worked in the hospital in Marble Hill.”

  “If no one needs me here, I’m going to check elsewhere to see if anyone wants me.”

  Because Rosswell was distracted by her red tattooed thumbprint, she left before he could ask her to check out Jim Bill.

  They found Jim Bill where Rosswell had left him. There still wasn’t a trace of blood, for which Rosswell thanked Whoever happened to be listening.

  Philbert started to turn Jim Bill over. “He’s not bleeding. Maybe he’s wounded in his back.”

  “Jim Bill,” Theodore said. “Can you hear me?”

  Jim Bill opened his eyes. “Quit yelling at me.” He moaned. “I hurt like hell.”

  Philbert said, “Where are you hit?”

  “Gustave.” Jim Bill managed to indicate a place close to the garage. “Get that son of a bitch.”

  Despite Theodore and Philbert ordering him otherwise, Rosswell dashed to the garage, his gun at the ready.

  Gustave had fled. Rosswell ambled back. Ollie appeared.

  Rosswell grabbed Ollie. “Where’s Tina?”

  “She’s safe. After you left, we flagged down an ambulance. Tina called me to report that she’d made it to the hospital.” His gaze locked on to the fallen lawman. “Jim Bill, are you okay? Did that bastard shoot you?”

  “Yes. I’m bruised. That’s it. Glad I wore my vest.”

  “Serious injuries can still occur even with the use of a bullet-resistant vest. The effects of transmitted forces through a protective vest often result in a significant chest contusion, concurrent—” Ollie’s bald head attracted the aim of Theodore and Philbert’s guns. Ollie fell to the ground. “I give up. Don’t shoot.”

  Rosswell’s mouth unclenched enough to apologize. “Ollie always talks like that. Not necessary to shoot him.” Rosswell needed to get to Tina. If he wasn’t mistaken, a migraine was sneaking up on him, making it hard to think. “I need to go.”

  Theodore said to Ollie, “Who are you?”

  “Ollie Groton. Judge Carew’s research assistant.”

  Alessandra sauntered onto the scene. “Hey, boys. Momma’s sad you all left. She said you were the best guests she’d had in a long time. Quiet. Didn’t cause any trouble.” Apparently, she hadn’t seen Jim Bill until she looked behind Theodore and Philbert. “Oh, my God. Jim Bill, you okay?” She rushed to his side. Again, Jim Bill explained his injuries.

  Alessandra, still by Jim Bill’s side, said to Theodore and Philbert, “You boys sure have big guns. Times are hard. One shot and the fight’s over. Can’t waste taxpayers’ money.”

  Alessandra’s statements confused Rosswell. “Taxpayers? They’re auditors. Do taxpayers pay for armed accountants?”

  Jim Bill said, “Judge, did you set off another alarm?”

  “Several. You may have heard.”

  Theodore examined Jim Bill again. “An ambulance is on the way. Don’t move. You’re looking good, but don’t move.” He put his hand on Jim Bill’s shoulder.

  Jim Bill looked over the people gathered around him as if he was taking inventory. “Is everyone safe?”

  Rosswell knelt by Jim Bill. “You did a great job. Everyone’s safe.”

  Theodore said, “Judge, we found something really interesting down there around the cave. Do you want to guess what it was?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Guess,” Philbert said.

  Rosswell rubbed the back of his neck. “If you all are going to kill me with twenty questions, then get it over with. I’m exhausted.”

  “Kill you?” Theodore scoffed. “Why would we want to kill our fishing buddy?”

  “Tell me what you’re talking about. I’m smack out of guesses.”

  Philbert let out a disgusted sigh. “You don’t know anything about the three people bound with clothesline and wrapped up in duct tape?”

  “Yes, I do. Charlie Heckle, Susannah Acorn, and Frankie Joe Acorn. They’re felons.”

  “Felons?” Philbert cocked his head. “You don’t say. Felons?” He caught Theodore’s attention. “Man says three jokers we handed off to the patrol are felons.”

  Theodore’s mouth dropped open. “No shit? Felons?”

  Rosswell said, “What the hell is going on here?”

  Theodore said, “Like you said, you—we thought it was Jim Bill—signaled us to get our butts down here to help him out. Guess that you didn’t need much help.”

  Philbert said, “Except, Judge Rosswell Carew, you let the main bad boy escape.”

  Ollie’s cell phone beeped a text message alert. He tapped Rosswell on his arm and showed him the message. “You should get to the hospital right quick.”

  “Is it bad?” Rosswell read the message.

  Ollie said, “Not if you don’t mind being called Daddy,” but Rosswell was already gone.

  Tina unwrapped the child to show Rosswell, who shut the door behind him when he came into her hospital room. “What do you think of our boy?” She’d dabbed the lilac-smelling perfume behind her ears. Rosswell loved the scent. He brushed her strawberry blonde hair away from her face before he planted a smacker on her lips.

  “Kind of small.” Rosswell leaned over the bed where Tina and his son lay. “He’s red. And looks like a prune.” A sniff confirmed it. “He smells fresh.”

  A bubble formed on the baby’s mouth and burst. The child loosed a contented sigh—something Rosswell figured he’d never hear again—and then continued sleeping. Stroking the baby’s hand, tiny fingers grasped his father’s finger. The child’s skin felt smoother and softer than any other baby’s that he’d encountered. A smile crossed Rosswell’s face. Delivering babies was one of the happy things he’d done as a medic while serving in the military.

  “Rosswell, we’ve got to name him.”

  “You do that.” Rosswell lifted the baby’s sock cap. “Bald as Ollie.” He tucked the blanket around the child and kissed him on his forehead. “I don’t know anything about a baby’s name.”

  “I insist.”

  Rosswell found himself distracted by the noise of the hospital that he heard even through the closed door. “No, you do it.” Afraid to actually pick up and cuddle the child, Rosswell felt that he wasn’t capable of sticking a name on his son that the child would wear all his life. Naming should be something a mother does. “I want you to be happy with what we call him.”

  “At least the first name. I’ll give him the middle name.” She touched Rosswell’s cheek. “The name is totally your choice. I’ll abide by it.” A tear welled up and rolled down her cheek. “I never want to be separated from you again. I’ll call him whatever you say.”

  Rosswell closed his eyes, thinking of various names, until a good one showed up. His eyes popped open. “In Moby-Dick, Ishmael tells the story about Steelkilt, a mutineer who’s about to be flogged by an unnamed captain. The story within the novel is quite moving.”

  “Ishmael? Steelkilt?” Tina creased her brow. A tone of confusion accented her words. “But our baby’s name—”

  “The captain refused to thrash Steelkilt after he whispered something to the captain. I’ve researched this and I know what he whispered.”

  “Rosswell…what?” The baby made a sound or moved a certain way that Rosswell couldn’t fathom. Whatever the child had done, Tina must’ve taken it as a sign he was hungry since she began nursing him. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

  Rosswell drew in a deep breath. “The name is Herman.” He rubbed his hands together, satisfied with the choice. “As in Herman Melville.”

  “Absolutely not!”

  Rosswell realized that when Tina spoke in her not-to-be-dissuaded voice, he’d already lost the argument. Rebuttal and attempts at convincing her otherwise were useless. “Let me think.” He closed his eyes and rocked back and forth on his heels. “I’m the father of your grand-daughter.”

  “I think you’re developing middle-aged attention deficit disorder.” Tina rearranged her blanket, rewrapped the baby’s blan
ket, and adjusted his sock cap, all the while breastfeeding him.

  “That’s what Steelkilt whispered to the captain and that’s why the captain allowed him to live.”

  Tina moved the baby to her other breast. “You’re tiring me.”

  “You had a kid. Our son. You’re entitled to be worn out.”

  Tina closed her eyes. “I’m taking a nap.” She hugged the baby closer. “Sit over there and be quiet till I wake up.”

  “Ah! I’ve got it. Aristotle.”

  Tina’s eyes flew open and grew wide. “Aris—” She choked. “Aristotle? We’re not Greeks.”

  “The name Aristotle means the best one of all.”

  “All the kids at school will call him Ari or something even worse.”

  “Jonathan. That’s from the Hebrew Yonatan, a shortened version of Yehonatan, meaning God has given. In the Bible, Jonathan was King Saul’s oldest boy and a close friend of David. In America, Jonathan Trumbull was a Scot who was the first governor of Connecticut.”

  Tina’s silence worried Rosswell until she inclined her head slightly. He took that as an affirmative sign. She said, “You’ve been hanging around Ollie too much. But, yeah, Jonathan is fine.”

  Rosswell hugged her. “ ‘Whatsoever thy soul desireth, I will even do it for thee.’ First Samuel, chapter twenty, verse four.”

  Tina said quickly, as if to forestall Rosswell changing his mind, “And the middle name is David.”

  Rosswell leaned over and again kissed the sleeping child. “I name you Jonathan David Carew.” He stood straight, scrutinizing the scene. Tina. Jonathan David. Both safe. Both healthy. A vital signs monitor on a rolling stand stood silent and dark next to Tina’s bed. A good sign that meant the doctors weren’t worried about her crashing. The nearly full moon shone through the window. A healthy baby boy slept soundly. Rosswell decided this wouldn’t be a good time to tell Tina that he’d forgotten to order a dozen red roses to decorate her nightstand. Instead, he said, “Jonathan David Carew is a strong name for a child who is strong.”

  The odor reached Rosswell’s nose at the same instant Tina said, “Time for Daddy to learn how to change a dirty diaper.”