An Unusual Occupation

by M. L. S. Weech

  “Sergeant, hold on,” the lieutenant tried to order him. As intimidating and large as the lieutenant was, for once, Richard was strong enough to push him aside. He looked at the crime scene. Some punk lay on the floor with a shotgun next to him. His eyes followed the punk’s blood to a pair of medical examiners. A body bag lay on the gurney. The MEs were almost reverent in how they raised the gurney.

  “Kyle!” he yelped. It couldn’t be Kyle; they’d said officer down, not dead. Not dead! He made it to the gurney, and the MEs stopped. They looked at him with such pity. Don’t look at me like that! It’s not Kyle!

  He closed his eyes as he pulled the zipper down the body bag. He’d see the body, and it would be sad. Some poor officer would be dead. He’d help console the cop’s family, but it wouldn’t be Kyle.

  He opened his eyes. He must have blacked out again because the next thing he knew, he was on the pavement. “It’s not him,” he said, crying. “It can’t be him.”

  He wasn’t sure why he tried to lie to himself. He couldn’t believe the lie, but he didn’t want to believe he’d just seen his best friend, his only friend, dead in a body bag. He couldn’t believe it, but it was true. A pair of hands helped him up. He didn’t know when the lieutenant had caught up to him. He was just grateful for the help. He must have looked like an idiot, sitting on his ass and crying.

  He choked down a sob. Kyle always made sure he didn’t look like an ass. Kyle made him look like a genius. Richard knew he was always just a little behind the curve, always a little too slow, too fat, but Kyle picked up the slack. More importantly, Kyle watched out for him. I let him down.

  “What happened?” Richard asked.

  “Witness says the man came in with a shotgun,” said Wilks. “Perp tried to shoot the store clerk, when the kid pulled a gun of his own. Kyle dove in front of the blast. It was all he could do, Richard. Kyle saved the kid’s life.”

  “Witness?” Richard asked. “The clerk wasn’t alone?”

  “No,” Wilks answered. “A regular was there; he tried to save Kyle.”

  Richard followed the lieutenant’s hand as he pointed to one of the ambulances. Drifter sat in the back on another gurney. He was covered in blood—Kyle’s blood.

  Richard didn’t know where the energy came from, but he found enough to charge the son of a bitch. “You did this!” Richard growled as he climbed into the ambulance. He grabbed Drifter by the neck. The bastard smiled! Richard punched him in the face. He hit him again and again. He stopped counting, but he didn’t stop punching. He didn’t stop screaming.

  He felt something course through him. It wasn’t rage. He couldn’t describe it if he had an eternity, but it felt right. It felt so good, and he felt it the moment he punched Drifter in the face. It felt like he had a right to the feeling; like it was his alone.

  “You killed him, you bastard!” Richard yelled. Drifter covered his face with his arms after the first punch or two, but Richard made sure the fucker felt every blow.

  A group of uniforms grabbed Richard. He knew they didn’t understand. Richard didn’t have time to explain that this was all Drifter’s fault. He just wanted vengeance.

  “Get off me!” he ordered them all. They dragged him out of the ambulance. Drifter had a bloody lip. He looked sad. What right did he have to look sad?

  Richard tried to break free from the uniforms. They tried to console him and calm him down.

  “Richard!” the detective heard. It sounded like Linda, but Linda never sounded like that.

  Richard turned around to see his wife. She was crying. Don’t be sad. I can’t take it if you’re sad. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “No,” Richard growled. I never growl at my wife. “It’s not right. He can’t be dead.”

  Linda rushed at him. Something about her wanting to comfort him felt wrong to him. He couldn’t think straight, and her desire to be there only added to the confusion.

  “It’s not right,” he yelped. He fell to his knees. Linda made it to him an instant later. She held him as he sobbed. “No,” he cried. She rocked him gently.

  “It’s all right, honey,” she said. “I’m here.” The world could fall, and he’d be fine, as long as Linda didn’t cry. It broke his heart to see her tears. He held her. He knew if he stopped crying, she would.

  “I’m sorry,” he told his wife. He thought he was apologizing to her, but his eyes were fixed on his partner. Kyle was dead. His best friend was dead, and he was just a little too late to do anything about it.

  “You didn’t do anything wrong, baby,” she whispered. “He was just doing his job.”

  “He didn’t have to,” he said. He looked for all the ways it should have happened. He imagined every scenario that ended with a joke and a laugh from Kyle the next day. Kyle could always make the worst situation seem like a joke.

  “He wouldn’t want to let you down,” Linda whispered to him. “He wouldn’t let someone die because you wouldn’t.”

  That was why it hurt so bad. His friend wasn’t there for just any reason. He was there so Richard could go out on the town. He was there because Richard wanted someone to be there. It was his fault.

  Richard couldn’t respond. The tears were stronger than any thought he could form. His dear Linda always knew the right thing to say. The worst part was that she was right. Kyle would never let someone die if he could stop it. But I let him die. I let him down.

  28

  An Honored Burial

  Linda was at a loss. She watched her husband watch his best friend’s casket lower into the ground. The rifles’ fire startled her each time they reloaded, or re-chambered, or whatever it was the policemen did to put another bullet in the things.

  She could feel Richard take a hold of her hand. She knew he meant to comfort her, but there was a wall around him. He didn’t speak, not really. He responded and reacted, but her husband was miles away, just off the 101 Loop. She’d watched his body take her home the night before. It showered. It went to work. It picked her up and brought her to the funeral. But, Richard never left that horrible place. She prayed as the priest gave Kyle his last rites. She felt horrible, but she prayed for her Richard. He hurt so much, and she needed guidance to help him through.

  She wrapped her arm around him. He would normally look at her and smile. Not this time. This time, his eyes didn’t find hers; they stared at the casket. She expected it to rain. It always rained in the movies when a hero died. Kyle was a hero. He had saved two lives. The sky should cry for him. It shouldn’t be such a beautiful day. The yellow flowers and green grass surrounding the tombstones seemed insulting to her.

  Richard thought she had hated Kyle. Well, maybe she didn’t like him very much, but if Richard cared about him, she did too. What she did hate was that Kyle represented a part of Richard’s life she couldn’t understand. She knew Richard better than anyone—except Kyle. Kyle knew what was wrong the nights he came home and didn’t want to talk. Kyle knew why he’d call his lieutenant and scream into the phone. Sometimes, it was almost like there were two Richards: hers and Kyle’s. She hadn’t hated the detective. She’d envied him.

  That envy formed a pit of guilt in her stomach as she walked with Richard to toss a rose onto the coffin. She’d never wanted something like this to happen. A part of Richard died in that store, so a part of her died too. The guilt was there because a part of her left this world, and she never even took the chance to get to know it.

  She took off her round, black hat. Richard took it for her. Even in that state, he knew what she wanted. His body just reacted on instinct, but Richard wasn’t there. She started to cry. She worried that Richard, her Richard, would never come back from that store.

  She kissed his forehead. She’d give anything to hear him talk about how fat he looked in his full-dress police uniform. She’d give anything to hear him apologize for sweating a little too much or not talking to her enough. The one thing Richard could never understand was why she loved him so much. He was a
great man with so many wonderful traits, but he always focused on how he could be better. He was humble where most were egotistical. He was shy where most were rude. He loved her, and that made him just right.

  The weather turned hot, so she slipped off her black vest and held it under an arm. She brushed a bit of dirt off her skirt as she watched her husband automatically shake hands and thank visitors. His chief gave a lovely speech at the church. Richard didn’t say a word. She couldn’t find a way to reach him. For the first time in her life, she had no idea how to help him. He’d shake a hand and say thank you while she’d nod at some word of encouragement.

  “There’s so many people,” she said. She wanted to get him talking.

  “He meant a lot to a lot of people,” he mumbled.

  “Did he have any family?” she asked. She wondered if she could learn anything about the man but feared she was too late.

  “A sister on the East Coast,” he answered. “She couldn’t make it. Kyle said she was into some sort of medical research.”

  “I’m sorry she couldn’t be here,” she said.

  “He wouldn’t have minded,” Richard said. She thought she saw his lips twitch into a smile. It was the smallest of gestures, but she prayed it meant Richard would come back to her. “He hated funerals.”

  She almost asked her husband why but decided against it. She wanted to be consoling, and every memory Richard brought up just seemed to bring him down.

  Richard’s boss approached. She didn’t need to ask; she just took a few steps aside to let the two talk. She was far away enough where she couldn’t hear more than a whisper. But suddenly, they were shouting at each other. The argument grew so quickly that she couldn’t believe her eyes.

  “You’re ruining your life with this!” the lieutenant yelled.

  “He’s already ruined it, and I’m going to ruin him for it. I’m gonna get the guy who’s responsible!” Richard yelled. She was on her way to him when she noticed Richard’s boss say something, but she couldn’t hear what. Richard pulled out his badge and tossed it at his boss.

  “Richard!” she cried to him. It only took another moment to reach him. He’d turned his back on his boss to wrap an arm around her.

  “It’s fine, hon,” he lied. “I’m taking some time off.”

  “Are you sure, Richard?” she asked. She wanted to tell him not to be so angry, but that usually only made someone more angry.

  “Yeah,” he lied again. “It’ll be fine once I take care of some things.”

  She didn’t ask what those things were. She turned to look at her husband’s boss. He nodded at her. Maybe he meant to be encouraging. Maybe he meant to say the badge would be waiting when Richard was ready to come back. Whatever the gesture meant, she didn’t know, just like she didn’t know what to say to her husband. She only meant to take a moment to think of a different direction for the conversation, but the moment turned into a minute, which turned into silence.

  A line of policemen, all in their dress uniforms, came to offer Richard a salute or a handshake. He said thank you and promised he’d be OK. That bothered Linda more than anything. She could always tell when he lied. He always looked ashamed. She’d never seen him more ashamed than each time he said he’d be OK.

  The funeral seemed to end too soon. One minute, they were in a church filled with people, and the next, she stood alone with her husband in a graveyard. The rows of tombstones saddened her. Do all police funerals seem so sad? Will I have to come here again for Richard one day?

  He held her hand as they walked to the car. He opened the door for her, even though she would drive. It was his reflexes again. They knew he always opened the door for her, but there was no adorably shy smile for her. He didn’t scurry to the other door as if, after twenty years of marriage, she’d suddenly drive off without him.

  The drive home was absolutely silent. She used to hate that damn police radio. It always knew when they were together. It always knew when she and her husband were doing something special or even meaningless. It had told her husband his best friend was dead. A radio, just a static voice, coldly told her husband he’d never be the same again. Since that night, it didn’t say anything.

  They walked into the house together. He hung the jacket of his uniform on the coat rack without even looking. She started to walk to the kitchen.

  “No thanks, hon,” he whispered. He knew she meant to cook something for him. He knew her better than anyone. He could almost read her mind.

  He started to walk upstairs. He was going to sleep. It had been at least twelve hours since he’d eaten. She felt some relief that he might be getting some rest, but it felt wrong. She didn’t argue or ask him not to. She thought he needed space and didn’t want to put any pressure on him. She just wanted him back. She told herself he’d come back when he was ready.

  The End.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  M.L.S. Weech was born in August 1979 in Rapid City, South Dakota. He fell in love with fantasy and science fiction at an early age. His love of writing quickly followed when he tried to write a sequel to his favorite movie. He didn’t know what copyright infringement was. He can’t remember a time he wasn’t working on some sort of project from that day on. He wrote for a junior high project. The only way his freshman english teacher could get him to settle down was to let him start writing a book. He completed what he calls his first manuscript when he was 17. He got a ton of feedback that was honest, helpful, and not much fun to listen to, but instead of quitting, he simply wrote another, and then another.

  He fell in love with reading in high school when he was introduced to Timothy Zahn and the Star Wars novels. Then he was handed Anne McCaffrey, Robert Jordan, Dean Koontz, Brandon Sanderson, and so many more. He went from reading to complete homework to reading more than three books a month, and then three books a week.

  He joined the U.S. Navy as a journalist in 2005. He served on aircraft carriers and destroyers. He served in the deserts of Iraq and the mountains of Afghanistan. When he wasn’t taking pictures, or writing features or news stories, he was writing fiction. Photojournalism was a hobby he enjoyed getting paid for, but writing fiction has been and remains his true dream. His final duty station was as an instructor at the Defense Information School in Fort Meade, Maryland, where he still teaches as a civilian.

  He’s completed nine manuscripts. He published his first book, The Journals of Bob Drifter, in March of 2015. The second edition of Bob Drifter was published in 2017. His second book, Caught, was released Jan. 28, 2017.

  MORE FROM BOB DRIFTER

  If you enjoyed this first part of the story, feel free to continue the adventures. The complete edition of The Journals of Bob Drifter is available right now on Amazon. It has all three parts, including the one you’ve just finished!

  The Journals of Bob Drifter

  A REQUEST

  I hope you enjoyed reading this story. The months working on world building, drafting, revising, and proofreading are all worth it if even one person enjoys this story. Please take a moment to rate and review this title on Goodreads, Amazon, or both.

  Reviews are an essential aspect of an independent author’s work. So please, regardless of whether you loved it or hated it, take a moment to leave a rating and review. There is no such thing as a bad review. Even if it weren’t so important for visibility and marketing, I value feedback. I want to write stories people enjoy, and anyone who offers me their time reading even one sentence has some insight to offer.

  Thank you,

  M.L.S. Weech

  ALSO BY M.L.S. WEECH

  AVAILABLE ON AMAZON

  “While the author possesses the skills to create worlds where nothing is as it appears, he also makes his readers believe in the reality of those realms ... A smart, page-turning journey into night terror, cybernetic warfare, and the meaning of bravery.”

  — Kirkus Reviews

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