Measure Twice

by J. J. Hensley

  Channing opened his eyes and watched plump flakes drift downward, contrasting with the stillness of the scene. More than a minute passed before he thought he heard something. He heard it again. The insulation of the snow and the occasional wind gust made it difficult to determine a direction. Then, he heard it again. It sounded like a cry of pain. It was a sound Channing knew all too well. The sound reached him twice more before he decided on the path to his right. Moving as swiftly as the ground allowed, he ran until he spotted a diminutive building at the edge of a clearing. Channing assumed the building was some sort of maintenance building or groundskeeper’s office. The village would hardly want a modern day groundskeeper walking among volunteers dressed in 1790s attire. Channing realized the village would have little use for a groundskeeper during the winter. The structure could make for a nice little hideout for someone trying to stay out of sight.

  The window facing Channing was vacant. No smoke rose from the stovepipe chimney. Beside it sat a white van with a license plate number Channing had memorized not long after he first heard the name of Lester Mayton. Channing surveyed his surroundings, making sure he was not walking into a trap. His eyes spotted a squirrel scavenging for acorns. He watched as the creature found its treasure and scampered behind a corner of the building. Raising his eyes from where the contented squirrel had vanished, he looked back to the window. Two eyes blazed back at him. Without presenting the slightest hint of alarm, Lester Mayton’s face gradually receded into the blackness.

  The window remained empty as Channing walked to the door. By the time he reached the door, the tremors had left his hands. For the first time in a long time, a sense of clarity washed over him and he felt the air filling his lungs. A blizzard of good memories passed through his mind. He saw childhood friends, birthday parties, college cram sessions, Mary laughing, weddings, a badge pinned on his chest—

  It’s been more good than bad. Let it all define my life. All of it.

  The rickety doorknob wobbled as it turned. He pushed the door open and took a step into the building’s lone room. The small amount of daylight that managed to come through the window and open doorway did little to brighten the room. The only internal source of light came from the other side of the room where Mayton held a flickering candle in one hand. Mayton’s other hand held a knife to the throat of a battered and bloody Mayor Marc Wirrer, seated and tied to a chair. The mayor was barely conscious, but alive.

  “I’d hoped I would have more time,” said Mayton.

  Keeping the gun at his side, Channing took another half step into the room and felt snow shift around his feet. He saw that Mayton’s eyes were sunken and his complexion pale. His shaven head and chiseled white face gave him a demonic quality. Whoever he was before, that man was dead.

  “I had big plans for Mr. Wirrer. I was going to finish him off here and then take him to my boat, which is tied off near Washington’s Landing. Since the river hasn’t quite frozen over yet, I was going to anchor it off shore where his bloody corpse and I would stare at than infernal place until the crowds came. Then, it would all be over. I would have completed my mission and could peacefully slip overboard and let the river’s icy waters take me to my sweet Cindy.”

  Mayton pulled the knife hard against Wirrer’s throat, forcing the man’s chin to move toward the ceiling. The mayor made a sound that was something between a grunt and a whine. “But I guess none of that is going to happen now, is it?” Mayton concluded.

  “No, I guess not,” said Channing, knowing that if Mayton’s original plan did not include an escape strategy then he certainly did not have one now.

  “You know, I saw you at the Incline,” said Mayton. “I recognized you from the news reports after you got tortured and your partner was killed. I remember how the mayor and all those bastards threw your name around and lauded you as a hero, but I don’t ever remember you giving an interview. Did you ever give interviews?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Channing did not answer. He shifted his weight and felt the snow again. Then, he finally noticed the smell of the room. It was a smell vaguely familiar to him. He looked down at his feet and realized the floor was not covered with snow.

  “I didn’t want to talk about it,” Channing answered. “My partner was also my best friend. When you lost your wife, did you feel like talking about it?”

  Channing shifted his eyes around the room and found the item he expected to see. Against a wall, next to a painting Channing vaguely recognized, was an open wooden barrel. Channing understood now. Every single inch of the floor was covered in gunpowder.

  Seeing the detective had put it all together, Mayton said, “Please excuse the mess. When you chased me into that warehouse the other day, it made me realize I needed to take more precautions. For instance, if someone managed to find me out here, I could still make sure our friend the mayor didn’t survive. I’ve covered the place with gunpowder and that barrel over there is still half full. Obviously, if I drop this candle, this all ends pretty quickly.”

  Answering Channing’s previous question, Mayton said, “As for me losing my wife. I didn’t lose her. They took her!” Mayton pulled the knife harder, causing the mayor to scream. The candle in his other hand wobbled ominously. A slight breeze came through the open door behind Channing, causing the yellow flame to fight against the rush of air.

  “Those men had to be punished. You know that in your heart,” continued Mayton.

  “Andy Lach didn’t deserve to die,” said Channing. “And what about those two people you killed at the bar. I heard you crushed the woman’s skull.”

  Mayton grew solemn at the mention of those deaths. Channing saw the slight change in expression and decided to press the issue.

  “And how about whoever that poor bastard was that you convinced to set himself on fire?”

  Channing’s mistake became evident as Mayton’s voice boomed through the small room. “He deserved what he got! All of those heathens at the center will burn eventually! And this devil has already admitted to me about how he worked with Culligan, Abdella, and Wayland to cover up my wife’s murder. So, now I’m going to send him straight to Hell with the rest of them.”

  Channing tried to change tactics. “Killing the mayor won’t bring your wife back. Let him go and I’ll stay here with you. Before long, the news crews will be rolling in and you can tell the world what he did. You can tell the world what all of them did.”

  Mayton looked at Channing with a mixture of fury and amazement and yelled, “Do you think I give a damn what the world thinks right now? The message may not be understood for a while. For the time being, this is about debt collection and settling accounts. This is about equaling things out. This is about balancing the scales and making things right. You have no idea what it feels like to know you failed someone and you can never make things up to her! You have no idea what loss is!”

  Channing stood in disbelief as Mayton sprayed words that seemed all too familiar to him. Mayton felt something change in the room and watched his adversary with curiosity and wariness.

  With a deep sense of resignation, Channing looked into Mayton’s eyes and said, “There’s nothing I can do to convince you to let him go, is there?”

  Without a word, Mayton drew the knife across Wirrer’s throat. Blood poured from the fatal wound. The detective raised his gun, but did not fire. A bullet would not solve anything. Channing and Mayton locked eyes as the mayor ineffectually gasped for air. In less than a minute, he was gone.

  Mayton was the first to speak. “It’s over. You should go now. Don’t worry; I won’t be leaving this building.”

  Channing was devastated and speechless. He did not know what outcome he had expected, but this was not it. He had failed—again. He let someone die—again. The man standing in front of him was responsible for eight deaths and he was simply going to…what? Blow himself up and leave nothing behind but pain and suffering. He would get to leave this world while others had to str
uggle every day to pick up the pieces of shattered lives.

  “We’re both leaving,” said Channing.

  Mayton glanced at the art print leaning on the wall. “I thought I might have killed you in that warehouse. And honestly, I didn’t care. But when I saw you standing outside just now, I was actually glad you were still alive. Regardless of what master you serve, you know what pain is, don’t you? Who better to tell the story?”

  “We’re both leaving,” repeated Channing, his weapon pointed at the chest of his adversary. “One way or another.”

  “You don’t fear death, Detective?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t either. It always seemed silly to fear the unknown.”

  “I agree,” said Channing flatly.

  Mayton unintentionally lowered the candle as he said, “What do you fear?”

  Channing thoughts took him back to the moment he tasted the barrel of his own gun. The hard click of the of the trigger pull still echoed in his ears. He thought of his unquenchable thirst to forget everything. To erase everything.

  “I feared life,” said Channing.

  “But no longer?”

  “It seems silly to fear the unknown.”

  “I agree,” said Mayton, a slight grin crossing his lips.

  “If you drop that candle, you will have even more blood on your hands.”

  Mayton nodded. His face was ghostly and peaceful. “That’s my cross to bear. You have five seconds.”

  In a resolute tone, Channing said, “You don’t get a free pass. I’m taking you out of here.”

  Channing, silhouetted by the open door, stepped forward quickly. Without hesitation, Mayton raised the knife. From behind Channing, a shot rang out and struck the murderer in the chest. Channing watched the burning candle drop in slow motion. A carpet of flame consumed the room and raced toward the barrel of gunpowder. Channing whipped his head around to the door. Lambert was standing in a perfect firing stance, her GLOCK still smoking in the cold air. She saw a killer threaten her partner with a knife and fired center-mass. There was no way for her to know she was lighting the fuse of a bomb.

  In three powerful strides, Channing threw himself into Lambert’s chest, knocking the wide-eyed woman back into the snow. Simultaneously, a scream of pain erupted from inside the shed. Before Lambert could process what was happening, Channing draped the entirety of his beaten, scarred body over her and somehow pressed her further into the frigid earth. To her, the blast that followed felt like a sledgehammer to the heart.

  Epilogue

  T ina Lambert liked coming out here. There was something very tranquil about the rural countryside of western Pennsylvania. She had never imagined Channing would choose to end up in this place. A hawk was enjoying the warm spring day and soared above her as she walked down the gravel path. Flowers lined both sides of a walkway that was not accustomed to seeing many visitors. Something about this place made her listen to the buzzing of the insects and the singing of the birds. Somehow, her visits here helped her put things in perspective.

  As she neared the end of the path, an inharmonious hammering followed by a jagged-sounding curse disrupted her meditative state. She smiled widely and headed toward the source of the noise.

  The door to the detached garage was open. She stood and surveyed the disaster zone spread out in this makeshift workshop. Channing—a hammer in one hand and a swollen thumb on the other—was muttering a string of curses and stomping a foot. His silent visitor covered her mouth and stifled a laugh.

  Without turning, Channing said, “Well, are you going come in and visit, or just stand there and make fun of me?”

  “Can’t I do both?” she asked, noticing the burn marks and scars from the blast were still visible on the back of his neck.

  Channing put the offending tool on top of some slats of wood, walked over, and hugged his former partner.

  “You don’t come out here nearly enough,” said Channing.

  “So, you miss me?”

  Channing fixed a fake scowl on his face. “Not at all. But Mary says I need to have more friends and you are one of the few people who can put up with me.”

  “And she made you set up shop out here, away from the house. She’s a smart woman,” said Lambert, knowing the real reason he had his workshop in the garage was because the only other option was the house’s basement.

  Channing rolled his eyes and shrugged in exaggerated exasperation. “Most of them are.” His eyes dropped to the thick binder she held in her right hand. In a playfully scolding tone, he said, “Ah, Tina, I told you I’m not interested.”

  “I know, I know. But I thought maybe you’d take a look at the case file and let me know if you have any general observations.”

  “Uh-huh,” he responded, not believing the new sergeant of the Homicide Squad for a second.

  It had been nearly a year since the Mayton case was officially closed. The blast that ended the life of Lester Mayton left Channing with second-degree burns and multiple shrapnel injuries. Lambert emerged from the wreckage with only minor cuts and bruises. The bomb squad and forensics experts determined that both of the detectives would have died were they standing at the time of the blast.

  For Channing, the most disturbing part of the aftermath may have been waking up in the hospital to Backhoe’s ugly face hovering over him and yelling, “Dude! You have to stop doing this! I hate coming to hospitals!” After a couple of days, Channing was sent home, having received an assortment of stitches and finally getting a cast on his broken right wrist. Lambert drove him home and relentlessly harassed him to call his wife. That evening he picked up the phone and dialed. He heard three rings—just three. Then, two words changed everything. “Hello, Jackson.”

  Lambert followed Channing as he returned to his workbench and lined up a piece of wood next to a circular saw. “Like you said, you don’t have many friends. Maybe you can help us out on a cold case and it will keep you busy.”

  “I didn’t say that. Mary is the one who said that. But I have plenty of friends.”

  “Name five,” Lambert dared.

  Channing acted like he was focusing on the project in front of him and said, “Well…there’s you. There’s Backhoe…” Channing scratched his head. “And Jack.”

  Lambert took a step closer.

  In a worrisome tone, she said, “Jack? You don’t…not…”

  It took Channing a second to understand her concern. He laughed loudly. “He’s our cat! Mary got us a cat. And no, his last name isn’t Daniels.”

  Lambert sighed and grinned at her mistake.

  “So, see. I’ve got plenty of friends,” said Channing.

  Her tone was sincere now. “How are you doing…really?”

  Channing faced her and said, “I’m doing very well. I’m not drinking. I’m going to AA. I’m running three times a week. Mary has been great.” He pointed to the partially completed carpentry project next to his feet. “And obviously we are moving forward.”

  Lambert lifted the binder and said, “I would understand you leaving and taking disability if you just had enough of the job. But you left because you blame yourself for Wirrer’s death. Wirrer was dead the minute he crossed Mayton. You know that, right?”

  Channing did not answer.

  “You can’t save everybody,” she said.

  “I didn’t save anybody,” said Channing.

  “You saved me,” she said while putting a hand on his shoulder. “And in doing so, you saved yourself. You count, too. If that’s not enough, since you left the department, I’ve put several more murderers away. Many were sociopaths who would have killed again and again. It’s a chain reaction, Jackson. Things happen for a reason.”

  He knew she was right, but part of him could not—or would not—accept everything she was saying. How was it that an ounce of bad always seemed to outweigh a ton of good? And now, she was here with a cold case she supposedly needed help in solving. It was a thinly veiled attempt to keep him busy and to give him
some other avenue for redemption. All the same, he appreciated her efforts.

  “Do you want to stay for dinner? I’ll throw some steaks on the grill,” said Channing.

  “I’ll have to take a rain check. I have to get back to the city,” she replied while standing on her toes and giving him a friendly kiss on the cheek. “I’ll call you next week and we can set something up. Tell Mary that I said hello, and take care of yourself.”

  Channing heard the sound of her footsteps soften as she walked down the path to the front of the house that he and Mary purchased a few months earlier. Mary thought a change of scenery would be good for both of them, and she had not been wrong. It was serene out here. He inhaled deeply and his eyes took in his surroundings. It was a beautiful afternoon and he was standing in his own workshop, surrounded by things that would let him create something. Jack walked in and jumped onto a sun-filled window ledge. He licked a paw, then stretched himself out for a nap. Everything Channing needed was laid out in front of him: a circular saw, a hammer, wood glue, a... binder. Channing’s shoulders slumped. I really wish I could hate her, he thought, knowing it was a lie.

  He grabbed the binder and looked at it. Paper tabs marking various pages protruded from the side and he read the tiny letters printed on the top tab. It read, Person of Interest: Keller, Cyprus. The name sounded somehow familiar and he started to open the binder, but stopped himself and tossed it aside. Jack’s head shot up at the disturbance. “We’ll see. We’ll see,” Channing said to his feline friend.

  He took hold of the round piece of unfinished wood in front of him and lined it up parallel with the edge of the table. He wanted to get this finished before he even thought about diving into anything else. Channing knew that for all his talents, he was a terrible carpenter. He had been at this for a month and it would be weeks before he finished. It did not matter. He had seven more months until the baby was due. He could take his time building the crib. Looking around at the misshapen and mangled scraps of wood all around him, he thought about what Lambert had said about the chain reaction of good deeds. Perhaps he did help some people. Perhaps he still could. He thought about the cuts on his body and the surgeries that repaired them. Some cuts kill and others heal, he thought. Channing carefully stretched a tape measure along the piece of wood before him. Whatever happens, he thought, I’m getting this one right. He measured once. He measured twice.