He promises to let me know should new information emerge.
I stare at the phone in the aftermath, nearing a state of disbelief. Scott comes over to check on me, and I share the news. The dynamic in the squad room changes from merriment to dejection once the word about Jerry spreads.
Marlon wonders, “What convinced him to run? Suppose the feds have a leak?”
I respond, “He knew his fingerprints might’ve been on the bomb. I’m surprised he waited until the afternoon to bolt. Seems obvious in hindsight. At least this news gives Judge Woodcomb a good reason to deny Tommy bail for the time being.”
Barbara nods.
The sinking feeling that I’ve made a lifelong enemy of Jerry Dalton scares me in a real way. I disagree with Trevor that Jerry won’t ever return to American soil. With unlimited funds, he can hide here just as well as anywhere else. And the urge to settle the score with me will draw him back, if nothing else. I’ve sat across from the man. He seethed with resentment at my taking over the Jackson investigation from him. How’s he going to react to my turning him into a fugitive from justice? He’s going to kill me, that’s what.
The thought of living out the rest of my life with a de facto death sentence over my head makes me want to find some foreign hideaway of my own to lay low. A month, a year, a decade from now—Jerry Dalton will one day come after me.
54
The drive home is a montage of disparate thoughts—Cate, the murder of Warren Jackson, Minton’s offer of the keys to the kingdom. Jerry, curiously, is largely absent from my mind. Stashed away somewhere in Cuba, the danger from him is more a long-term anxiety. I have the rest of my life to worry about when that dagger will strike. The concerns now are more immediate.
No speeding tonight—the lack of hurry a reflection of being unsure as to which way to go. The investigation should end tomorrow, but returning to my life of just a few weeks ago feels unavailable to me as a choice. I reckon I was perfectly happy before—at least I didn’t have any sense of being unhappy. Except now I want more from life than simply hanging out with Eliza and working on cars. The investigation is one of those before and after lines of demarcation. Minton brought me in from the cold, and the world is now a different place. I just need to figure out how I fit into it.
The carport welcomes me into its open arms, and the comforting feel of its embrace provides a measure of peace. However much I’ve changed over these past two weeks, my love of this place has not abated. I bask in the silence and think about Ca—
Something’s wrong.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and the realization that I have misread yet another situation mocks me as being too stupid to live. But I have no time for self-pity. The need to think fast is paramount—seconds, not minutes.
Option One—Back up the car and get the hell out of Dodge. Except there’s no telling how far I will get, maybe not even out of the driveway. And if I somehow survive the night, the fear of waiting for the next time will crush my soul in the interim. Option Two—stay and fight. I get out of the car.
While trying to appear nonchalant, I cross the yard as fast as I dare to the garage, calling Scott on the way.
“Hell—”
“Jerry Dalton is in my house waiting to kill me.”
“Wha—”
“I’m heading to the garage. Get here as fast as you can.”
“Ho—”
“I just know. If I’m wrong, I’ll buy you a lifetime supply of beer. But I’m not wrong.”
“A Sheriff’s Deputy should be in the area. I’ll—”
“Don’t. Some patrol deputy comes blundering into this thing, and he’s liable to get all of us killed. Come alone and be careful, especially if you haven’t heard from me by the time you get here. I have to get ready now.”
“Chance, wait—”
I hang up, silence the phone, and enter the garage from the side door. The pull-down garage bays remain closed and locked. I shut the blinds on the windows that look out toward the woods. Jerry will have to come in through the side door, and he will have to do it without knowing what’s waiting for him when he does. But I’ll see him. Hidden video cameras surround the approach to the garage—anti-theft measures now being deployed on a much different mission. I check the live feed on my phone for signs of imminent trouble. Nothing so far.
I play music and crank it loud to give the appearance of normalcy.
The hunch is that he planned to take me in the house. Now he must reevaluate his line of attack. That should give me a few minutes. The only light I turn on is a dim one on the far side of the garage away from the side door. I scatter ball bearings on the ground in his likely path and spill oil on the floor in the same spot. The floor is slippery in normal conditions. Now it should be as slick as ice. If Jerry busts through hot, his only hope of staying upright is the power of levitation. If he tries to sneak in slowly and discerns the obstacles in his way, he may retreat before I can get a good shot at him. I’m hoping for the former.
Through all of these preparations, one eye remains glued to the phone on the lookout for him. Still no sign of anything.
I grab the shotgun in the corner, checking both barrels to ensure that the shells remain present and accounted for. Next, I maneuver the large rolling tool box into a strategic location and take refuge behind the makeshift shield. At last, I offer up a silent prayer straight out of Psalms: “Lord, let death take my enemies by surprise.” It worked for David.
The wait is agonizing. Just as I begin to question my whole read of the situation and consider the embarrassment of alerting Scott on the slightest of evidence, Jerry slithers through the shot of one of my security cameras.
“This is really happening,” I murmur to myself.
Dressed in dark clothing, his steps are slow, measured. A drawn pistol guides his way from the house to the garage. The loud music blares on—R.E.M., one of my favorite bands. The album is one of their early ones—the frantic rock a perfect corollary to the chaos swirling around me. Jerry is now ten feet from the door, and I shake my limbs to keep them limber. The phone sits on the floor to free my hands to grasp both the stock and the barrel of the shotgun for maximum accuracy. I watch Jerry inch closer. Five feet now.
He reaches the door and stands in place for at least a minute, maybe longer. My eyes bounce from phone to door and back again on an endless loop. I’m well-hidden, at least until Jerry locates the direction of the first shotgun blast. But in that fraction of a second his pistol will aim my way and discharge a deadly barrage. I’m banking on the tool chest to save my life. Part of me wonders if I should aim for his legs, but that strategy is my asking to be killed. Jerry Dalton is not the type of man you shoot in the legs.
He touches the doorknob. I killed more than my share of deer growing up, but this ain’t that. My revolver lies next to me, too—in case I lack the time to reload the shotgun. But part of me knows that if I have to rely on the revolver, then I will soon be a dead man.
The turn of the doorknob is slight, a fraction of movement followed by another fraction of movement followed by another. I see the scene on my phone—too hidden to see much of the actual doorknob from my present position.
Jerry releases the doorknob and remains planted right outside the door. He was testing to see if it would open before committing himself. The thought occurs to me that I could go over there right now and unload both barrels through the door and into his chest. At that range, even with the door taking some of the impact, the damage should do the trick. But the ball bearings and oil prevent me from acting out that line of attack. And I’m way too cowardly to relinquish the protection of the tool chest. I watch and wait.
He stretches his hand and rotates his shoulders in a warm-up exercise. I kiss the shotgun for good luck. He crouches low outside and puts his hand on the doorknob again. His legs are poised for a tiger-like leap any second now, which means he’s coming in hot. I push the phone aside and wait for it.
Even prepared for the
onslaught, the movement catches me off guard in its swiftness. No matter. The ball bearings and oil do the trick. He grunts in muted surprise, his arms flailing in a futile balancing act, the pistol pointed to the ceiling. I whip around the tool chest and fire two deafening blasts directly into his middle. I’m back behind my place of safety in an instant and reload the shotgun with fresh shells in three seconds.
A single stray shot ricochets in my direction, but I’m no worse for wear. The collapse of his body on the garage floor is audible, even in the frenzy of the music. I switch the feed to the one camera in the garage itself. Jerry lies sprawled out, the pistol a foot or so from his hand.
I leave the safety of the tool chest and level the shotgun at the prone figure before me. Sticking my leg out, I kick the pistol further away from his reach. He moans on the ground like a whimpering wounded animal. But maybe he is playing possum. Plenty of them are around here. I back the hell up, well away from him, still scared out of my wits despite the seeming superiority of my position. I’ve seen Game of Thrones and remember the battle between the Red Viper and the Mountain. Things can change quickly. Jerry no doubt has other weapons within his reach, but I won’t be getting close enough to frisk him. I shut down the music and call Scott.
He answers in mid-ring.
“Yeah?”
“Jerry Dalton is bleeding out on the floor of my garage. Two shotgun blasts at close range. Now you can send the cavalry, and bring in our team, commandeer Atlanta crime scene techs if you have to. We’re in charge until someone tells us otherwise.”
I hear the blare of his siren over the phone. He doesn’t say anything for a spell.
“You hurt?”
“Not a scratch.”
“Look at you. Be there in ten minutes.”
The blood spreads in an ever-widening circle on the floor. Jerry is still conscious and stares at me with eyes that retain their fierce intensity, even in defeat.
I ask, “Why kill me now? I thought you were on the way to Cuba.”
He smiles a sickly smile and responds, “I got on the plane but couldn’t stomach the thought of fleeing my own country. Besides, I’m trained to always finish the job. You shouldn’t have been alive. I aimed to rectify that.”
“You aimed wrong.”
A bewildered chuckle laced with regret barely escapes his lips. He says, “Yeah, that’s twice you got the better of me.”
“Looks like it.”
“I underestimated you.”
“Well, it’s the last thing you’ll ever do.”
Jerry wills his head off the ground to take a look at the holes in his stomach and chest, confirming the accuracy of my diagnosis. He returns his head to the concrete and endures a hard landing for the trouble. But I doubt he’s feeling much pain at this stage. He turns his face to me, the first inkling of fear leaking from his eyes as he contemplates life on the other side of eternity. I wonder if he knows Jesus.
He asks in a weakening voice, “How did you know? How did you know I was here?”
I’ve never killed a man before. The nerves inside of me still shake with adrenaline. I give him a hard stare as I contemplate his question. The agency of free will—the capacity to choose the good or to choose the bad—captures the essence of being human. No one chastises the lion for devouring the hyena. The lion has no option but to obey its instinct. Not so with humans. We choose to kill.
Tonight is no different. The law will judge me justified by reason of self-defense, but I made the choice all the same. And I am without remorse.
He begs me, “Please, tell me. How did you know?”
I decide to grant the dying man his last wish and answer the question. But the decision isn’t born of charity. More like spite. I want him to know how his own actions condemned him to death, want him to understand the reason why he bleeds on the floor while I have the gun in my hand, want him to wallow in self-reproach as he takes his last breaths. I crouch down to get a little closer to him. To make it personal. To make him feel it. Looking him dead in his eyes, I tell it to him straight.
“The dog didn’t bark.”
55
Scott arrives to find me still standing well away from the body on the floor, the shotgun pointed at the motionless figure, me refusing to give the lifeless mass even an inch to attempt a miraculous resurrection. No sign of breathing exists, no movement of any kind. The blood loss is massive. Some internal organs are visible if you catch the blast holes at the right angles. Scott mutters, “Holy hell.”
“Don’t get too close. I don’t trust him.”
He produces a disbelieving half-laugh and responds, “That man is dead.”
“Are you willing to bet your life on that?”
“Yeah.”
He grabs Jerry’s arm, checks for a pulse, and pats him down for further weapons. He lays another pistol and a folding knife to the side. I move around him to have a clear firing line if necessary. Without looking back my way, Scott observes, “You’re making me nervous with that thing.”
“I don’t know how to break it to you, but this shotgun has replaced you as my best friend.”
“Hard to compete with a good shotgun. So what all happened?”
I give him the rundown. He opens up one of the garage bay doors to bring in some fresh air to clear out the smell of death. My eyes stay fixed on Jerry. Scott suggests that I lay the weapon down and take a walk. He’ll handle the scene until back-up arrives. I put the shotgun on a work table but re-holster the revolver on my hip—the thought of being unarmed inconceivable in the moment. Part of me wonders if the oppressive fear lodged in my nervous system will ever subside.
“I’m going to the house to check on the dog.”
“It’s a crime scene, Chance.”
“I won’t touch a thing.”
He wears the displeasure outwardly but doesn’t challenge my resolve. The walk to the house is heavy—the probabilities not in my favor. In a spate of outlandish fancy, I fantasize that maybe Jerry only rendered Eliza unconscious, out of some personal affinity for dogs himself. But the thought is stupid. No happy tail-wagging is waiting on the other side of that door. Eliza is gone, and Jerry Dalton killed her.
I enter the house through the carport, eyes wide open. I don’t have to venture too far. Eliza lies motionless in the living room, her throat slit, a pool of blood collecting on the floor around her head. That son of a bitch. I contemplate going back to the garage, picking up the shotgun, and shooting Jerry again in the face—leaving a bloody pulp that would make him unrecognizable to his mother when she buries him. I search for grace that’s not there. Forgiveness can wait until the morning. In the moment, the hatred burns with intense fury.
Amber and Cale were murdered in the living room of our old home. The symmetry is a sick, cruel joke. I walk back outside, careful not to touch anything as promised. I drop myself down into one of the Adirondack chairs next to the fire pit and mourn the onslaught of even more loss. No fire is lit. The ashes that fill the pit are a reminder of a past that burned out, forever lost to the winds of time. Eliza is gone. Amber and Cale, too. Only a couple of days ago, Cate and I sat in this exact spot and pondered a future together. To what end? The light of the crescent moon struggles against a black barrier of clouds. Everything is dark.
The sounds of the murder squad arriving pierce the quietness of the night. I think about starting a fire to keep warm but cannot muster the energy. The thought of retrieving my phone from the garage withers on the same vine. Someone brings me a blanket. I’m unsure who. I hide underneath the covering and apparently fall asleep against overwhelming odds. Sometimes your body calls the shots and that’s the end of it.
When I return to some semblance of consciousness, I spy Marlon through a small gap between the blanket and the chair. The crackle and smell of the now roaring fire remind me of camping with Daddy when I was a little boy—the flames providing a glimpse of his reassuring presence in the deep, dark wood. I miss him so much.
Marlon asks,
“You okay?”
“He killed my dog,” I respond through the muffling cone of the blanket.
“Bastard.”
I close my eyes and try to drift further away to parts unknown. But this time my body has other ideas, and I find myself wide awake in an instant. Marlon is in the mood to talk.
“Did I ever tell you how I got demoted off Atlanta homicide?”
“No.”
“I was one of the first brothers promoted to homicide back in the day. The old guard didn’t like it. When their careers were starting out, they were on the front lines defending old Jim Crow. And now a black man shared the desk right next to them. Let’s just say that many of them didn’t feel the need to evolve with the times. They were racist in that sadistic law enforcement kind of way. Gave me grief at every turn, called me the usual slurs. But I gave it right back to them, and they never forgot. Spread the word that I was a difficult troublemaker that didn’t play well with others.”
That’s exactly what I had heard about Marlon. He continues the story.
“Except I was a damn fine detective and that carries the most weight in the end—at least it did for a decade or so. One day, I’m making the collar on this guy named Ricky Rhodes. He killed his wife and buried her in a shallow grave in his backyard, too stupid to realize that she would eventually wash up. Never reported her missing, either. Like I said, real genius material. As I go to put the cuffs on him, Ricky draws out a pistol from under his shirt. I knocked it smack out of his hands, but he dove for it on the floor to have a second try at me. I pulled out my service revolver and no more Ricky Rhodes after that.”
He stares into the fire, much like I did when I confessed my sins to Cate the other night. Man has always looked to fire for answers. Moses, after all, found God in the burning bush. I remain silent, absorbed in Marlon’s skill as a storyteller.
Death to the Chief (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 2) Page 25
