by BJ Bourg
“As real as the pain you’re about to endure if you don’t do what I say.”
“You can’t be more than five-five.” Hank looked her up and down. “And what do you weigh…one-twenty?”
“Close enough,” Dawn said, noticing how he scrunched his right foot in the ground.
Hank nodded and glanced idly at the floor. Suddenly, he reared back his right hand and stepped forward, but Dawn was too fast for him. She lifted both hands to block her face while simultaneously shooting a right kick to his groin. The kick landed long before Hank’s punch came close to her face, and he buckled over. As his head came down, Dawn drove her knee up into his face, snapping his head back. She then executed an elbow strike to his exposed throat. He crumbled in a heap to the floor, uttering guttural noises like an animal choking on its own blood.
Footsteps pounded through the door behind Dawn and she turned to see two patrol deputies making entry, guns drawn, and eyes wild. They looked from her to Hank, and then one of them asked, “What the hell happened here?”
Dawn shrugged. “He fell and hit his head.”
They laughed. After holstering their pistols, they jerked a dazed Hank to his feet and cuffed his hands behind his back. As one of them led him to their patrol cruiser, the other tended to Cynthia.
“By the way,” the deputy said, “the sheriff has been trying to call you over the radio.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “My guess is it has something to do with the hostage situation.”
Dawn pulled out her cell phone and saw that she had three missed calls—all from the sheriff. She quickly called him back. When he answered, she apologized for not answering. “I was assisting with a domestic violence complaint.”
“Well, let patrol handle it and get to the dealership as soon as you can,” Sheriff Chiasson said. “Sheriff Tyler”—he was the sheriff of Interior Parish, which neighbored Magnolia to the north—“has agreed to have his detectives work the officer-involved shooting angle, but I want you to take lead on the murder investigation. We need to find out why Gaylord LeDoux came in here and killed his wife and two other people.”
“I heard a sniper had to take him out,” Dawn said slowly. “Was it London?”
“Yeah, he stopped LeDoux from executing more hostages.”
“How is he?”
The sheriff grunted. “You know London. Nothing fazes him. Now, get down here and start digging into this for me.”
“What’s wrong with the central detectives?” Dawn mostly worked the southern part of the parish and she knew the central detectives would most likely be offended that she was being asked to work a high-profile case in their assigned area. “Why aren’t they working it?”
“Just get down here.”
CHAPTER 4
Jerry and I were standing under the overhang near the front door of Olivier’s Car Dealership when Dawn’s car pulled into the parking lot. She’d had to drive down a dirt road north of the business, because a wall of news vans blocked the main entrance. The sheriff nearly had a heart attack when the manager of the dealership, a fellow named Wilton Michot, had given an interview to one of the reporters earlier in the day and named the hostage taker. The sheriff promptly sent eight members of our riot team to the highway to keep the reporters at bay.
“I’m heading out,” Jerry said when Dawn parked her unmarked Charger and opened the driver’s door. “You need anything more from me?”
I told him no and stepped into the sunlight, waiting for Dawn to gather up her crime scene kit and walk toward where I stood. When she was close enough that I didn’t have to yell, I asked, “Hey, how are you?”
Without saying a word, she walked past me and glanced at the bullet hole in the glass, then turned her attention to Gaylord LeDoux, who was still lying on the ground inside the dealership. His eyes were half closed and his head rested in a pool of blood and brain matter.
Dropping her crime box on the ground, Dawn shoved a length of brown hair behind her ear and adjusted the Glock in the pancake holster strapped to her dress slacks. She then removed her camera from the box and fixed me with her dark eyes. “If you wanted to hang out, you could’ve simply called…you didn’t have to go shooting somebody.”
I shot my thumb at LeDoux. “He didn’t give me a choice.”
“Have you been inside the crime scene?”
“No. I didn’t think it would be a good idea.” I nodded toward the deputy who was stationed just inside the doorway. “He hasn’t let anyone inside since our team cleared the building, so everything’s intact.”
“What about the Interior Parish detectives…have they arrived yet?”
“No.” I pointed toward a building south of the dealership that served as their used car operation. “Sheriff Chiasson set up a command center in that building, and the detectives are supposed to report to him first.”
She was thoughtful for a minute, searching my eyes. “Why’d the sheriff ask for me to work the murder case? Why not just let one of the central detectives handle it? It’s their assigned area.”
“He trusts your work,” I explained. “You’re thorough...you don’t miss anything.”
“Rachael is thorough and so is Melvin.”
Detectives Rachael Bowler and Melvin Ford worked the central part of the parish and they were both good at their jobs, but no one was as thorough as Dawn. I said as much, but she dismissed the compliment.
“Besides,” I said, “they’ve got their hands full babysitting the hostages until Tyler’s team gets here.”
As she tugged on her latex gloves, Dawn asked if I’d recovered my spent shell casing.
I pulled a white envelope from the top pocket of my coveralls and handed it to her. “I put the recovery date and time on the outside. The exact time I took the shot will be in the radio logs.”
She nodded her thanks. “And your rifle?”
“It’s still in the bridge cabin where I took the shot. After they secured everything down here, I got an entry team member to stand guard over my rifle.”
“As you know, we’ll need to take it for ballistics.”
I frowned, but nodded. “I hate when my rifle gets confiscated. It makes me feel naked, you know?”
“Stop shooting people and they’ll stop taking it away from you,” she joked. “Do you have a backup?”
“Yeah, I’ll grab Dean’s rifle from my equipment room.”
Dawn’s eyes fell and it was her turn to frown. “Lily’s having a hard time.”
Dean’s daughter had not taken the news well when she’d learned of the murders of her dad and her brother, and it nearly killed the seventeen-year-old when she found out the circumstances surrounding their deaths. The last time I’d seen Lily was at Dean’s funeral, and she was not in a good place.
“Have you spoken to her?” I asked.
“I drove by her aunt’s house two days ago and took her for a burger.” She shook her head. “It breaks my heart to be around her, but I hate to leave her. I feel like I’m abandoning her when I drive off.”
“I know what you mean.” I kicked at the concrete curb. “I wish I could do something to ease her pain.”
“Don’t we all?” Dawn bent to lift her crime scene box. “I’ll get with Sheriff Chiasson and let him know I’m here. Where will you be?”
“I’ll hang out by my truck.”
“Sounds great.” She turned to walk across the lot, but stopped for a second. “Oh, and London…”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you’re okay.”
CHAPTER 5
Three hours later…
After giving my statement to the Interior Parish detectives, I left the dealership and headed to the range to zero Dean’s rifle. Dean had maintained a proper zero on his rifle right up to the day he died, but his body type and mine were different, which could cause our points of impact to be slightly different. In my line of work, a fraction of an inch could mean the difference between life and death, so nothing could be
taken for granted.
It was dark by the time I arrived at the firing range. I parked my truck so that the headlights were directed downrange toward the target stands. Mosquitoes swarmed like a heavy storm cloud, so I grabbed a can of repellent from the console and sprayed myself down before stepping out into the warm night. Even a hundred percent deet wasn’t always enough to keep these winged vampires away, but this was shaping up to be the deadliest year for the West Nile virus in our area, so I made the effort. If I died, I wanted it to be how I lived—by the sword—and not by some insect too small to even lift a 168-grain boat tail, hollow point bullet.
I walked to the target stands and stapled a life-size, colored photo of an evil-looking man, then returned to the firing line. Beads of sweat had already started to form on my forehead. Summer had ended two days earlier, but someone had forgotten to tell Mother Nature. The temperature had reached ninety-three earlier in the day and, although night had fallen, it seemed to be standing still.
I settled in behind Dean’s rifle and bolted a round into the chamber. After pulling the butt firmly into my shoulder, I rested my cheek against the stock and peered through the scope. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, allowing every muscle to relax and pushing every thought from my head. When I reached my normal respiratory pause, my crosshairs fell on the tip of the target’s nose. It’s what snipers call their natural point of aim. Had the crosshairs been off target, I would’ve had to make slight adjustments to my body position until the crosshairs fell exactly where I wanted them to fall.
At that moment—under the stars, in the heat, with mosquitoes buzzing all around me—I was one with the rifle. There was no other place I felt more comfortable. There was no other place I’d rather be.
I took another breath. When I reached my natural respiratory pause again, I squeezed off the shot. After allowing for a brief follow-through, I smoothly bolted another round and fired a second shot. As soon as the shot broke, I heard noise behind me and saw light splash the area around me, but I ignored it and fired the third shot. I bolted another round into the chamber and spun around to see who had driven up.
“Hey, London, I figured it was you,” Dawn said, stepping out of her Charger.
I stood quickly. “What are you doing here?”
“I tried calling earlier, but you didn’t answer. When I drove by and saw the headlights, I knew it had to be you.”
“What’s up?”
“I tried calling to let you know Sheriff’s Tyler’s team wrapped up their investigation. They’re waiting for the ballistics to come back before finalizing their report, but—as I’m sure you already know—their preliminary findings are that the use of deadly force was justified.”
“You can never be too sure these days.”
She nodded in agreement.
“Want to walk with me?” I pointed toward the target stand. “I have to check my target.”
“Sure.”
After I helped spray her down with bug repellant, she fell in beside me and we strode toward the target. The grass was covered in dew and it dampened the edges of our pant legs as we walked. Neither of us said much until we’d gone about fifty yards, at which time Dawn asked, “You come here often?”
I grinned, although I didn’t think she could see in the dark, and said, “Every chance I get.”
She and I looked up when we reached the target stand. I shined my light on the evil man’s face and nodded my approval. Dean’s rifle was dead-on.
“Holy shit!” Dawn said. “How many rounds did you fire?”
“Three.”
“And they all went in the same hole?”
I nodded and changed out the target. As we walked back toward the firing line, I detailed the integrated act of shooting and explained how marksmanship was mostly a mental exercise. “It’s easy to put three bullets in the same hole on a good day, but you have to be able to maintain that level of proficiency in stressful situations and under adverse conditions.”
“Like bad weather?”
“Yep…extreme heat, freezing temperatures, thunder storms”—I waved my hands around—“and even flying vampires.”
She laughed.
“You have to learn to block out the elements and operate within a bubble,” I said.
“But how do you train yourself to block that stuff out?”
“It all begins in training. If I’m doing a stalk during a practical exercise and I happen to set up in an ant pile, I don’t let myself move. I stay there until I’m clear to take the shot. When I’m done, I do what I would in a real situation—stealthily move out of position.”
“That’s crazy! And you’ve actually done that before?”
“More times than I can count. I was sniper crawling into position once and crawled face first over an ant hill. They tore my face up like I was public enemy number one.”
“What happened?” Her eyes were wide as she stared incredulously at me. “Did you stop to brush them off or anything?”
“No, I kept crawling until I reached my position.” I grinned. “Once you get off of their property, they eventually pull back and leave you alone.”
“What about snakes?”
“When I attended my first sniper school I came face-to-face with a copperhead during a stalk.” I grunted. “It was almost too late when I noticed it. My face was literally inches from where it was coiled up under a windblown tree.”
“Did you jump up and run?”
“No, I slowly backed off and—moving millimeters at a time—grabbed a branch and encouraged it to move on.”
“You’re crazy!”
“It’s not crazy, it’s serious business. When the lives of hostages are hanging in the balance, we don’t have the luxury of comfort and we don’t get to give in to our fears.”
Dawn was thoughtful as she watched me record the shots into my data book. “I don’t think I could ever do that.”
I looked up and studied her dark eyes in the dim glow from my headlights. They seemed ghostly. “You’d be surprised how far you can push your body when you put your mind to it.”
She just frowned and said, “I don’t know…”
When I was done with my data book, I pointed to the rifle. “Do you want to take a shot?”
Dawn’s brow furrowed and she cocked her head sideways. “What happened to your unwritten rule? You know, the one that says only someone with your DNA can shoot your rifle?”
My skin was tanned from lots of exposure to the sun, but I know I blushed.
“Oh, so you heard about that?” I asked, buying time to think of a good explanation.
“I did.”
I quickly pointed to the rifle. “Well, it’s not mine…it’s for Dean, and the rule only applies to one’s own rifle.”
“Sure.” She smiled and stepped closer to me. “I’d love to shoot it.”
CHAPTER 6
Monday, October 1
I woke up early and eagerly got dressed for work. Sheriff Chiasson had insisted I take off a week—with pay—so the investigation into the shooting of Gaylord LeDoux could be completed and then reviewed by the district attorney’s office. He’d called my cell phone on Friday to tell me the DA had agreed with Sheriff Tyler’s findings that the shooting was justified, and he told me I was cleared to return to work today.
I was relieved it hadn’t taken longer, because I was going crazy sitting around the house. I must’ve dry-fired a few million times and reread a dozen old Louis L’Amour novels from my childhood. I’d kept every book of Mr. L’Amour’s I’d ever purchased and, while they were worn from much use, they were still as special as the first time I’d read them.
The television droned in the background as I ate a fried egg sandwich with chocolate milk. I was only partially paying attention when I heard something about a bear attack. I stopped chewing and turned toward the TV, remembering my encounter with a black bear in Gatlinburg a little over a year ago.
The banner at the bottom of the screen said the story was
from out of Tennessee and I nodded. Makes sense!
As I watched, they reported how a man from Florida was vacationing in the mountains with his family and had found himself between a mother bear and her cubs. The mother bear had swatted at him and bit his foot, only inflicting minor injuries but giving him a good scare. “The momma bear was only doing what came natural by protecting her cubs,” an official was saying. “While this is a rare event, it does underscore the risks associated with visiting the park. Visitors must remain vigilante and…”
I’d never had kids, but I knew enough to know you never came between a mom and her children. I’d had to take more than one life in the line of duty, and the mothers of those I’d killed hated me with every violent fiber inside of them. And I got it. If the roles were reversed, I’d feel the same way.
If the roles were reversed…
I sat there for a long moment and thought about my life. Sure, I’d had girlfriends here and there—even some one-night flings—and I had some good friends, but I realized my entire existence revolved around my work. What would it be like to take some time off—to get away from work for a while? I glanced around at my empty kitchen. What would it be like to have a wife bustling about in her nightgown and a couple of screaming kids jumping on the sofa? Would I feel fulfilled or smothered? Could I even handle kids? They looked like a lot of work and all the parents I knew did nothing but worry all of the time. It hardly seemed worth it. I shrugged, went back to my breakfast. Some people were destined to live alone, and maybe I was one of them.
After eating, I drove to the detective bureau in Payneville. The bureau was situated in the western wing of a large building that also housed the patrol division and the administrative office of the sheriff’s office. The portion of the building the detectives occupied contained two interview rooms, a large open area with eight individual cubicles, a spacious evidence room, and a large plush office for our captain.
My desk was cluttered with at least a dozen new case files, but I almost didn’t notice them due to the large candy basket that towered over everything on my desktop. It contained mostly chocolate candy and included chocolate-covered cherries and Sno-Caps.
