by BJ Bourg
I smiled and nodded.
Chloe sauntered over to me, grabbed my hand and led me to the bathroom. Once inside, she pushed the door shut and guided me to the center of the room. She reached under my shirt and placed her cold hands against my stomach, gently slid them upward, lifting my shirt. When her hands reached my chest, she grasped the edge of my shirt and pulled it over my head and tossed it aside. She tucked her blonde hair behind her ears, leaned forward, kissed my chest.
I moaned and wrapped my hands behind her back. She kissed lower and lower on my chest, then reached for my belt.
CHAPTER 53
Sunday, July 6
“Why do you have to work today?” I watched as Chloe snapped her bra in place and then shimmied into her jeans.
“Because I have bills to pay.” She searched the floor for her shirt. “Why do I always lose my clothes over here?”
I used my left elbow to push myself to a seated position, then I got up and padded across the floor to the bathroom. I caught Chloe’s eyes following me and smiled. When I stepped out of the bathroom, she was dressed.
She frowned. “It sucks that I have to leave.”
“I know how it is. You don’t get to pick when a story will happen—just like I don’t get to pick when someone will die.”
“Thanks for understanding.” She kissed me and hurried out the door.
I pulled on my boxer briefs and stepped out the back door with Achilles. He moved gingerly around the backyard, as though testing his muscles. When he was done, he limped back into the house, then curled up in the corner of the kitchen. I sat beside him for a long time, scratching his ears and talking to him. Once he fell asleep, I got dressed and surveyed the mess in the kitchen.
“Well,” I said, “I guess you’re not going to clean yourself.”
I started to push my papers into a pile on the floor when a knock sounded at the front door. I tossed the papers on the table and strode across the living room to open the door. It was my father-in-law. “Hey, Nick, how’s it going?”
“I’m good. I just wanted to drop by and see how my favorite son-in-law was doing.”
“As well as can be expected.” I held up my bandaged arm. “This thing won’t stop itching and it’s driving me crazy. Other than that, everything is perfect. How are you?”
“That’s good.” Nick walked into the kitchen, bent over and rubbed Achilles between the ears. Achilles barely moved.
“He’s been taking it easy.”
Nick nodded, taking in the disarray.
“I was just picking up the chaos from the search warrant. Now that I know how it feels to be on the other end of these things, I’ll be sure to clean up my mess next time I run a search warrant.”
Nick strode into the living room. “Damn, they tore this place apart, didn’t they?”
“Yeah,” I called over my shoulder. “You should send them a bill for the damage.”
I grabbed the pile of papers from the table and walked to the garbage can. I started to drop the pile in the trash, but noticed the check Nick had given me when I first came to town. I snatched it from the pile and let the rest of the trash fall. I started to turn, when the signature at the bottom of the check caught my eye—it was the same signature as that of the notary on the deed to the plantation home. “What the hell?”
“What is it?” Nick asked from behind me.
“You lying bastard!” I spun around, but it was too late—Nick had an old single-action revolver in his hand and it was aimed directly at me. He stretched his thumb forward and cocked it. I held the check up. “You notarized the sale of the plantation house. You told me you knew nothing about it.”
Nick nodded, his face stone cold and murderous. “My one regret in this whole ordeal is you thinking Michele betrayed you. That girl never betrayed anyone in her life. She was as honest and loyal as they came.”
Sensing something was wrong, Achilles hobbled toward Nick, teeth bared. He issued a throaty growl. “No,” I ordered. “Get in the room!”
Achilles hesitated, but continued growling. I gave the command a second time, and he finally obeyed.
I waited until he was in the bedroom and leaned to pull the door closed. The muzzle of Nick’s revolver followed me. I lifted my hands, sighing as realization flooded over me. “So, it was your idea to set me up, wasn’t it? You blame me and the governor for taking your only child away from you. They’re all gone, and I’m the last straw. I was supposed to die in that explosion, but that didn’t happen. You killed an innocent man. Now what? Are you going to get your cowardly hands dirty?”
“You took away the last thing that mattered to me, Clint Wolf. For that, you have to die.”
“You know, it didn’t make sense to me that Malcolm and all would want me dead. But now I get it. All this time you pretended to be grieving with me, but you were plotting against me. You shady bastard!” As I took a step forward, I shook my head. “You don’t have the balls to pull—”
The shot was deafening. It felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach by a strong mule. I collapsed. As soon as my knees hit the floor, I heard glass break and a scream. My face twisted in confusion.
Nick didn’t flinch. He stepped forward and cocked his revolver, then shoved the burning hot muzzle to my forehead. I smelled burning flesh and glared up at him. “Do it.” I took a wheezing breath and straightened my shoulders proudly.
The explosion that followed was farther away than I’d expected. Nick’s eyes widened; he hollered in pain. His cries were cut short by a second shot that entered the back of his head and lodged against the front of his cranium, causing a knot to form immediately.
Nick collapsed in front of me, and I sank to the ground beside him, struggling for air. I heard a female’s voice screaming commands. It sounded like she was on the phone. My face rocked to its side on the floor and I stared out at the sunlight streaming through the front door. I noticed a broken dish and what looked like cake all over the floor. Something green and white was shoved into a piece of the cake. I squinted. It looked like the number thirty. I suddenly remembered it was my birthday. I grinned as I fought for air. I made it to thirty.
Footsteps pounded near, and I glanced up to see a pair of long, tanned legs approaching. I had to fight to get them to come into focus, but I could tell they were muscular.
“Clint!” The woman dropped beside me and pulled my head into her lap. Her dress was red—just like the blood oozing from my stomach.
I tried to talk, but couldn’t.
“Clint, can you hear me? It’s Susan. Hang on! Keep breathing. An ambulance is en route. Come on…keep breathing!”
I’d heard people who survived near-death experiences say they saw a bright light as they were dying. I smiled to myself because knew I wasn’t suffering a near-death experience. I didn’t see a bright light—I saw Susan Wilson wearing a dress.
Book Two:
BUT NOT FORGIVEN
CHAPTER 1
Sunday, July 6
Main Street, Mechant Loup, LA
Susan Wilson stopped at the corner of Bayou Tail Lane and Jezebel Drive and sat there, her left turn signal clicking impatiently. She gripped the steering wheel of her marked cruiser and stared straight ahead, wondering if what she was about to do was inappropriate. It wasn’t illegal, but was it morally okay?
“You’re just an officer bringing her chief a birthday cake,” she said out loud. “Nothing more, nothing less.”
With renewed determination, she jerked the wheel to the left and drove south along Jezebel until she came to Clint Wolf’s house. Clint had been hired as the new police chief less than a month ago, but it seemed like a year. A lot had happened in that short period of time and she felt like she knew Clint better than some of the locals she’d known for years—better than her own family, even. She would never admit it out loud, but he was the first man who truly excited her. Sure, his chiseled cheeks, dark features, and muscular build didn’t hurt, but there was much more to her new boss. Som
ething deeper drew her to him. Is it the dead look in his eyes and the fact that he’s suffered so much grief? she wondered. Is my fascination with him some deep-seeded desire to fix him? Is it a motherly thing? She grunted and shook her head, laughing at the idea. “I’d rather break someone. Nope, I think I’m—”
Susan suddenly stopped speaking when she saw the vehicle in the yard. She knew it wasn’t Chloe Rushing’s car, but she didn’t recognize it and that bothered her. She knew every car in town. She glanced toward the front of the house and could see through the screen door enough to tell that the main door was open, but she couldn’t see inside from that angle. She chewed on her lower lip, wondering if she should get down. What if it was someone from the city—some old friend visiting after everything that had happened? What if it was his mom?
“To hell with it. Everyone likes cake.” She slipped from the driver’s seat and paused long enough to tug at the bottom of her red dress. It had been years since she’d worn one and she felt ridiculous in it. “Why’d I put this damn thing on again?” she asked herself, snatching the cake from the seat and pushing the door shut.
Susan strode across the yard—the muscles in her tanned legs rippling as she walked—and had just reached the steps when she heard a loud voice booming from inside the house.
“You took away the last thing that mattered to me, Clint Wolf. For that, you have to die.”
Susan’s heart began pounding in her chest. She kicked off her shoes and tiptoed up to the porch, craning her neck to see inside the house.
“All this time you pretended to be grieving with me, but you were plotting against me,” came a heated response. It was Clint and he sounded equally as angry as the other man. “You shady bastard.”
Susan inched across the porch and reached for the screen door, pulling it open.
She heard Clint saying, “You don’t have the balls to pull—”
Just as Susan stepped through the doorway, a gunshot exploded directly in front of her. It only took a split second for her to take in the scene; some man—a large man—had just shot Chief Clint Wolf point-blank in the stomach. A scream of anger ripped from Susan’s throat as she dropped the cake and struggled to rip her gun from the thigh holster. Everything in the room seemed to slow down and Susan found herself thinking very clearly. She was astutely aware that Clint’s knees had hit the floor at the same time the cake did and that the man was stepping forward to finish him off. Using her left hand to grip the holster, she jerked upward as hard as she could, ripping the gun free. The metallic click of the man’s revolver being cocked was deafening. Susan tried to bring her hand up as fast as she could, but it, too, was moving in slow motion.
Clint knelt before the man, staring up at the revolver that was pressed to his forehead. “Do it,” Clint said, straightening his shoulders proudly.
The explosion that followed was deafening and Susan jumped in her skin. Relief quickly surged through her body when she realized she’d gotten her shot off just in time. The man hollered in pain, but Susan didn’t waste any time or take any chances. She stepped forward and fired the next shot right into the back of the man’s head, shutting him up forever.
The man collapsed and Clint sank to the ground beside him, struggling for air. Susan pulled her phone from a pocket in her dress and called 9-1-1, barking orders at the call taker. When she’d given her location and requested emergency medical assistance, she rushed forward and dropped to the floor beside Clint, cradling his head in her lap. Blood oozed from his belly and matched the color of her dress. He tried to talk but couldn’t. She knew it wasn’t good and panic started to settle in the pit of her stomach.
“Clint, can you hear me?” she called, trying to project an air of confidence. “It’s Susan. Hang on! Keep breathing. An ambulance is en route. Come on—keep breathing!” Tears welled up in Susan’s eyes as she suddenly realized what had drawn her to him…he reminded her of her father. “Please don’t die, Clint. Please, not you, too!”
CHAPTER 2
Fifteen months later...
Thursday, October 8
Chateau Parish Courthouse
I cleared my throat and glanced around the large courtroom. The hearing was closed to the public, leaving the two dozen wooden pews empty. The only chairs occupied were those in the jury box and at the prosecutor’s table. Adjusting the ballistic vest under my tan uniform shirt, I leaned close to the microphone. “I’m Clint Wolf, chief of the Mechant Loup Police Department.”
First Assistant District Attorney Isabel Compton nodded, and then asked me to recount the events of July sixth. Although it had been over a year ago, I remembered every detail like it was yesterday. I turned to face the grand jury. There were twelve of them—seven men and five women. The youngest was a female who looked to be about nineteen and the oldest was a man who had to be knocking on seventy.
I’d testified in court dozens of times as a patrol cop and even more as a homicide detective for the City of La Mort, but this was different. A lot was riding on my testimony. What I said would mean the difference between Susan Wilson being indicted for first degree murder or going free. In Louisiana, being convicted of first degree murder meant one of two things—the death penalty or life in prison without parole. I took a sip from the glass of water that the court reporter had offered me. When I returned it to the counter, my hand shook and I almost spilled it. I cleared my throat again and took a deep breath.
“I’d just returned home from the hospital,” I began. “My house was a wreck, so I started to clean things up when I heard a knock on the door.”
Isabel stepped forward and pushed a length of blonde hair behind her ear, shifted her dark brown eyes—which were even darker than mine—down to her notes. “Before you go any further, can you explain to the jury what happened that caused your house to be in such disarray?”
I nodded and turned back to the jury. Starting from the beginning, I described everything that had happened, down to the very end. When I went over the bad parts, I noticed some jurors shaking their heads and one even gasped out loud. After I was done, I turned to Isabel and nodded. She straightened her red suit jacket and removed several photographs from her file. She then walked to the witness chair and asked me if the photographs accurately depicted what my house looked like after the shooting.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
“Is there any doubt in your mind that Susan Wilson’s actions saved your life that day?”
“No doubt at all.” I turned and made eye contact with each of the jurors, one at a time. “Had it not been for Sergeant Susan Wilson’s actions, I wouldn’t be sitting in this chair talking to y’all today. Instead, I’d be rotting in a coffin and a murderer would be walking free.”
Isabel looked out over the jury, pursed her lips, and nodded. “Thank you, Chief. That’ll be—”
“Isabel, I have a few questions for Chief Wolf.”
I turned to the large man sitting at the prosecutor’s table. He wore a dark pinstriped suit with a purple tie. I guessed him to be in his mid fifties. Although we’d never formally met, I’d seen District Attorney Bill Hedd’s picture on billboards up and down the parish. The Elvis Presley haircut and large flapping jowls were hard to miss. He’d remained mostly quiet throughout the hearing, but it was clear something was on his mind now.
Isabel looked a little surprised by the interruption, but smiled and took her place at the table as he stood and sauntered over to the witness chair. For those who didn’t know better, he was an intimidating figure. He had to be at least seven inches taller than my five-foot nine-inch frame and, at four hundred pounds, was more than two hundred pounds heavier than me. But his hands were soft, and his life marred with tragedy.
“Miss Compton just showed you a series of photographs.”
I nodded and waited for a question.
“How many times was the victim shot?”
I scowled. “I’d hardly call him a victim, sir. He came over to my house to kill me.”
&nbs
p; “Right.” DA Hedd stared at me for a long moment. “But he didn’t kill you, did he?”
“Not for lack of trying. He shot me pretty good. I was in the hospital for a long time.”
“You lived, but he died.”
I nodded.
“Please answer out loud, so the court reporter can record your answer.”
“Yes, sir. He died.”
“Tell me, Chief, what did the victim do after Sergeant Wilson fired the first shot?”
“The would-be murderer who came to my house with the specific intent to kill me screamed when Sergeant Wilson shot him. His eyes grew wide. He was obviously surprised that someone was there to save me.”
“Was it necessary for Sergeant Wilson to shoot the victim twice?”
I stared DA Hedd in the eyes for a long moment, anger rising to the surface. When I first rolled into town two years ago, I’d heard whispers about his wife being brutally murdered twenty years earlier by some local bar owner. They said she’d been cheating on Hedd with the man and he wanted her to leave Hedd. When she refused, the man killed her. It was bad enough to learn your wife had been murdered, but to learn she was murdered by her lover? That was just cruel and unusual punishment. Although I didn’t know him, I felt a strong connection to him back then. I always said I’d shake his hand and tell him how sorry I was if our paths ever crossed. But now that our paths were crossing for the first time, I only wanted to punch him in the face.
In a controlled voice, I said, “Yes, it was absolutely necessary for her to shoot him a second time.”
“In the back of his head?”
“After she shot him the first time, he was still a threat and he aimed to kill me. Had she not taken swift and decisive action, I wouldn’t be here today.”
“I see.” He seemed to be staring at something on the wall behind me. After thirty seconds or so, he looked down at me. “Why did Sergeant Wilson show up at your house that day?”
