“The other guy, the one that hit me with the nunchuks, he was supposed to be Jason from the Friday the 13th movie. White hockey mask just like the one in the movie. It’s cracked. He will be needing a new one.”
“Cracked? How?”
“My fist.”
“You hit him?”
“Defending myself.”
“What was this Jason character wearing?”
“An old ragged coat. Dark T-shirt. Can’t remember his shoes. Dark pants, too, I think. Maybe black.”
“Eyes?”
Jim shrugged.
“And I understand your partner was hiding in the ambulance while all this was happening?”
“This was her first shift back after a leave of absence.”
“For what?”
“She was almost raped last winter. You know this.”
“Remind me.”
“Does Core Street Crew ring a bell? J-Rock Jackson? He tried to kill us at Garden Terrace, remember? Sharon had a nervous breakdown after that.”
“Mm hmm. I see. Now let’s go back. You said you were alone on the scene with two characters wearing Halloween masks, and the one called Jason attacked you with—” Murphy paused and glanced at his notes. “—none chucks?”
“They’re called nunchuks, sir. It’s slang for nunchaku, an ancient martial arts weapon. I train with it three times a week.”
“How long have you studied martial arts, Mr. Stockbridge?”
“We had this discussion last time.”
“Answer the question.”
“Most of my life.”
“What color belt do you have?”
Jim rolled his eyes. “Sir, how long is this going to take?”
“Color!”
“Black.”
“Do you compete?”
“MMA.”
“M-M-A?”
“Mixed martial arts.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means I know how to fight!”
Murphy cleared his throat. “I believe Lieutenant Rivetti told me you served in Special Forces or some other special ops branch?”
“No, I was a rescue swimmer.”
“Coast Guard. Uh huh, a rescue swimmer who knows how to hurt people.” Murphy picked up the nunchaku and studied it. “He hit you with this? You’re lucky he didn’t kill you.”
“He’s the lucky one.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Detective, I’ve been sparring with those things for years. That guy was good, but he wasn’t that good. I could have destroyed him.”
“Mm hmm.”
“He swung at me, sir! I kicked his ass, and that’s when the other dude, Michael, pulled the Mossberg.”
Murphy stopped writing and stared at Jim. “You know shotguns, too? Did he threaten to shoot you?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He didn’t say anything. He turned it on me.”
“Then how do you know he intended to kill you?”
“Because I know. Look! I’ve had enough of this! Go ahead and arrest me if you need to, but I’m not answering any more questions!”
“All right, then, Mr. Stockbridge. Consider yourself under arrest.”
Jim sighed and buried his face in his hands. He counted to ten and then looked back at Murphy. The little man cocked his head and stared into his eyes. “Mr. Stockbridge, you seem like an intelligent man. Think about it for a moment. You were standing beside a murder victim holding a smoking shotgun when police arrived on scene. I would think your fingerprints are all over the gun. There are no other suspects, and we have only two witnesses, one an unconscious cop on his way to surgery, and your partner, Miss Duncan. She was hiding in the ambulance at the time and states she didn’t see a thing. For all I know, sir, you shot Mr. Washington.”
Jim stood up and shouted, “This is insane. I’m innocent!”
“Innocent?” Murphy closed his notepad. “You may be a lot of things, Mr. Stockbridge, but you are not innocent. Officer?” he said to a nearby cop. “This man is going downtown. Please arrest him and take him to your car.”
“Wait a minute,” Jim shouted. “You can’t do this!”
“Mr. Stockbridge, control yourself.”
“Control myself? Detective, I just saw an old friend murdered, and you have the gall to blame me?”
“Detective?” A police officer approached tentatively, gave Jim an awkward glance, and then said to Murphy, “There’s something over here I think you ought to see.” Murphy followed the officer back to the ambulance, climbed into the driver’s seat, sat for about five minutes, and then climbed out and walked back over. “This is your lucky day, Mr. Stockbridge. I just watched the video captured by the camera on your ambulance. The lighting is poor, and it needs to be cleaned up and analyzed by our specialists, but for now it corroborates with your story.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re free to leave.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“Not disappointed, Mr. Stockbridge. Concerned. You, son, are an accident waiting to happen.”
Murphy walked away. Jim glanced at Devon’s body. He mentally removed the yellow tarp and forced himself to replay the scene in his mind. He heard the blast. Watched Devon’s face explode. He could feel his temples throbbing. He felt an overwhelming urge to hurt someone. He closed his eyes and lowered his head. “This isn’t real.”
“Jim?”
Jim opened his eyes. A frightened young woman stood in front of him, her usually jovial cow-like eyes bloodshot and tired. Her oversized frame seemed shakier than usual, to the point where he could almost smell fear. His first reaction toward her was anger, after all she had deserted him at a time he needed a partner most, but as he saw her bulbous chin begin to quiver he realized she was in trouble. “Jim, is Devon … is he…”
Jim nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
“Oh Jim, I’m so sorry. Oh, poor Devon. Please forgive me.”
“Sharon, there’s nothing to forgive.”
“But I left you. And the police … they asked me what I saw. I had to be honest, Jim. I saw nothing. I was so scared I ducked down in the front seat to hide. I mean I saw you fighting one of those characters, but it was dark, and when I heard the first boom I closed my eyes and ducked. I actually thought they’d shot you at first, but they just told me it was Devon. I feel so ashamed.”
“Sharon, there’s nothing you could have done. Besides, Murphy saw the video. He saw what happened.”
Sharon sighed and handed him a towel. “Your face and knuckles are bleeding.”
“I’m all right.”
Sharon shook her head. “Let me see that arm.” Jim extended his injured arm. A vicious red mark with considerable swelling sat about four inches below the elbow. “Wiggle your fingers,” she said. “Any tingling or numbness?”
“No.”
“Bend it,” she ordered, supporting his arm through the entire range of motion. “Pain?”
“Yes.”
“I think you broke a finger, too. Hon—” Sharon squeezed his forearm. Her fingers gripped him almost lovingly, as if she realized she would never have the same opportunity again and she wasn’t about to miss it. “You know I’ve always liked you.” Jim didn’t respond. He knew what she was saying was difficult. He let her continue without interrupting or pulling away. “You’re one of the toughest, most physical and manly men I have ever known. But—” She released her grip. Her hand slid off his arm. “I’m afraid for you, Jim. You’re going to get yourself killed.”
“God made me this way.”
“No, he did not. I overheard what that guy said to you, and he was right. You’ve got to learn to control yourself. You’ve always been about to explode. As long as I’ve known you.” There was a pause in the conversation before Sharon wiped her eyes and stood. “Come on,” she said standing. “Let’s go get that arm checked.”
“No, it’s okay. Everything’s oka
y now.”
Sharon suddenly became wobbly. Tears began to flow down her cheeks. She sat down next to him and lowered her head. “Everything’s not okay.” She removed a wad of tissues from her pocket and wiped her eyes. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”
“It’s only been six months, Sharon. You need to give it more time.”
“That’s not what I mean, Jim. I don’t want to do it anymore. I hate this job. All I could think about when I saw those men coming out of the bushes was those stinking hoods all over me like last time, panting and laughing. Jim, I’m sorry. When I saw them, I had to run.”
The two paramedics sat for a few moments without speaking. Jim sat patiently as Sharon cried. Finally, she blew her nose and said, “Who was that guy chewing you out a minute ago?”
“Who, Murphy?” Jim jerked his head toward the detective. “He’s the one that arrested me last year for beating up those punk gangbangers.” Jim heard the grunting sound of a heavyset man clearing his throat. He glanced to his right. A grossly out of shape, thick-necked man with a sadly extended belly walked toward them. “Oh great. Bagwell.”
Jim tried to imagine his supervisor on a hard trail run, walking on a treadmill, or even simply lifting a heavy stretcher into the back of a waiting ambulance. He couldn’t. In his opinion, Supervisor Bill Bagwell was a complete waste of skin. He walked up and stopped a few feet away with an annoyed expression on his face. His cheeks looked heavy and red. A toothpick hung from the corner of his mouth. “That dumpster stinks.”
Jim nodded.
“Stockbridge, what happened out here tonight? They’re saying you killed Washington.”
“And you believe them.”
“All I know is you two didn’t get along, and now he’s dead.”
“Go watch the video.”
“I already saw it. You fighting some kook in a mask. What’s that all about?”
“Read the police report.”
“Bill,” Sharon cut in. “We’ve had a horrible night. Can’t you just leave us alone for a few minutes?”
“Nothin’ doin’, Duncan. I need that truck back in service right now.” Bagwell removed the toothpick from his mouth and spit a wad of something brown onto the ground. “I’m shorthanded tonight as it is, and now, thanks to you two, I’ve got about a ton of paperwork to complete.”
Jim jumped from his seat. “Hey! Two creeps wearing horror masks just murdered one of your men, Bill! And they tried to remove my face!”
“Stockbridge, you’re about two seconds away from getting written up.”
“Write me up! Maybe I should write you up for being such a lazy slob!”
Sharon murmured a four-letter word and walked away.
“Stockbridge, I’m warning you!”
Jim shook his head in disgust. “You’d think just once you’d take our side on an issue. People are supposed to be innocent until proven guilty!”
Bagwell spit another brown wad onto the grass and walked away.
* * *
Jim found Sharon sitting in the front seat of the ambulance crying. He climbed in and sat quietly for a few moments. He thought of Devon and the injured cop. Of his idiotic supervisor and the leprechaun detective that had caused him so much grief. “What are we going to do?” Sharon murmured. “I can’t run another call. I just can’t.” Jim started the truck and pulled out of the parking lot onto Reservoir Street, and as he did a spattering of house lights blinked and came to life up and down the block. Lamps began to glow and someone’s security alarm began to howl. Power had been restored. But Jim felt no relief. A hard knot grew in his stomach. Another on his arm.
“This shift,” Sharon said. “It’s what I would imagine hell to be like. Never- ending misery.”
“Sharon—” A light rain began to fall. Jim flipped a switch to activate the wipers. The blades swept across the windshield with a squeak. He grabbed the microphone, called back in service, and then turned and glanced at his partner. “Sometimes I think we’re already there.”
CHAPTER
7
SATURDAY—05:28—NOVEL IDEA (SLIP #23, West Dock, Pair-A-Docks Marina) Sadie Miller drank coffee. Lots of it. The Adderall she had been prescribed to treat her attention deficit disorder had so many side effects that she refused to take it, but caffeine worked just fine. She made a strong pot of Larry’s Beans’ Cowboy Blend, poured a mug, and then carried it topsides to wake up. She had a lot of work to do and caffeine helped her to focus. More cerebral blood flow or something like that. She sat down and sipped at the steaming cup as she glanced around Pair-A-Docks. The marina was smaller than she had expected, with two splintered docks and a rusty fuel pump that reeked of diesel, but the electrical hookups looked new, and the bathhouse and picnic area were surrounded by lush green grass. She counted two-dozen sailboats floating lazily in their slips. A gentle breeze rippled the water’s surface, carrying with it the singing of unseen birds and the aroma of things coastal … organic muck and oyster shells.
Sadie turned her attention to the pinkish hue just starting to paint the eastern horizon, a seamless blend of brightening liquid pastels that reached up into a deep blue sky. Altogether it was a moment to remember, the perfect scene to grace her new novel and to boost her mood, it was the caffeine that had the greatest effect on her brain. She felt her neurons begin to fire and her creative juices flow. Satisfied that she was ready, she drained the cup and dropped back inside the boat to slip into workout gear—a pair of black tights with a matching blue sleeveless top. After pulling on her Reeboks and taking a few swigs of bottled water, she glanced at herself in the mirror and then climbed the stairs and jumped to the dock. After some light stretching, she trotted across the yard, past a small rustic general store, and down the dirt road that ran the length of the sleepy little island. The humidity sucked the water from her skin. She felt her leg muscles begin to warm and her face to flush and sweat as she slowly lengthened her stride. She felt strong. It felt good to be fast. She drained half the bottle before reaching the end of the road, and then jumped a crumpled brick wall and hit the beach running.
Her novel practically wrote itself as she ran. After losing at love, her main character Abby had sailed off into the sunset, escaping to start a new life. Sadie could picture the harbor setting, and the characters and plot were taking shape, only who would be Abby’s hero? The one to sweep her off her feet? Would he be handsome? Romantic? She found herself smiling as she envisioned the delightful moment when he touched Abby for the first time … when they finally kissed. But would they ever make love? That, she knew, could never happen. Her readers would never allow it.
As she finished her first lap of the island, she began reliving her last writer’s conference in Charleston, an annual affair of wannabe romance writers in search of fortune and fame. As keynote speaker, she had really wowed the crowd—a group of mostly envious women who hung on her every word. She described her writing methods—the way she plotted her stories, built her characters, and defined their lives. How she followed her heart. How it told her where to go. “I have the good fortune of freedom,” she remembered explaining. “I live on a sailboat. I go where I want to go. And when I find the right location I stay there and write my novel. I write about what I see. The landscape. The customs. The people. The characters walk into my life. I watch the way they move, what they wear, and how they think. They literally write themselves. And I—” Sadie remembered glancing around at the audience as she paused a few seconds for effect. “I always fall in love.”
A gasp had gone up from the audience that evening, a collective giggle of the hundred or more women who had come to hear her speak. The men—the half dozen or so in attendance—didn’t even blink, but the women in the group sat on the edge of their seats. “It’s strange,” she remembered telling them. “He always seems to appear. We meet someplace interesting—a coffee shop, museum, or a dock. We talk. I memorize his eyes, his smile, his voice, and how he speaks. And my fingers can’t help but fall in love with hi
m as they tap away at the keyboard describing him to my hard drive. You see, as I fall in love with the character, Abby falls in love. And my readers … they fall in love with him, too.”
Despite the humid temperature, Sadie felt a strange chill as she remembered the standing ovation. It had been the most powerful address she had ever delivered. They would definitely remember her name. And her books? She had seen a noticeable spike in sales. Her new publisher had seen it too.
She finished her third lap of the island and was just beginning her fourth when a crusty sounding voice stopped her in her tracks.
“Morning, missy!”
An old man in a yellow slicker and Tilley hat stepped from the front steps of the general store. He looked like the Gorton’s fisherman, only without the beard and moustache. “Name’s Sonny Cay. I’m the harbormaster at Pair-A-Docks.”
“Hi Sonny.” Sadie bent over to catch her breath. “Forgive me. I didn’t see you there.”
“No, I surprised you.”
“It’s okay. I’m Sadie Miller,” she said, standing. “And I’m afraid I owe you an explanation. I’m docked in slip 23. I arrived last night after dark. There was no one around, so I pulled into the first empty slip I found. I was referred here by a man who claimed to be your friend.”
“Yes, I know. Rusty called to say you were coming. And don’t worry about the slip. It belongs to Dan Banks, rich doctor from Raleigh. He’s away for two weeks. Say, missy, you’re out awfully early, aren’t you? I’m the only one around here that gets up before dawn.”
“I start every day at five. Drink a cup of coffee and go for a run.”
Sonny motioned over his shoulder. “I open the store every morning. Fill the pots with fresh coffee and get a cup of my own. Been a tradition for years. Say, missy. I’ve never seen anyone use this island as a track. Training for a marathon, are you?”
“Actually, no. This is when I do my best writing.”
“You write while you run?”
“In my head.” Sadie laughed to herself as she studied Sonny’s features. He looked rather comical, kind of salty and dried out as if he had grown up on the sea with too much sunshine and a little too much to drink, but soft around the edges, too, as if he knew how to talk to a woman. He wore denim coveralls, a yellow rain slicker, and a bleached white sailing hat that covered his thick gray hair. His sun-tanned face drew up in a deep wrinkled smile beneath a pair of bushy gray eyebrows and sparkling brown eyes. Sonny Cay (pronounced “Key”) was the perfect character for a novel, she just wasn’t sure where. She took some mental notes about his appearance and tucked them away for later. “Running gets my juices flowing.”
Paramedic Killer Page 4
