by BJ Bourg
What the hell’s going on? he wondered. Have I gone soft?
He was coating the salads with dressing when Claire appeared from the bathroom. She’d washed off her makeup and changed into her kick-around clothes. She took her seat next to Delilah and began slicing up her meat. “God, it smells so good.”
Melvin just stood there staring into space, wondering how he was going to get through dinner. He hadn’t eaten anything since the fire, but he wasn’t even hungry.
“Honey, are you okay?” There was concern in Claire’s voice.
“Um, yeah, I’m just…I don’t feel like eating.”
“Then why’d you fix yourself a plate?”
He didn’t have an answer for her, so he just said he needed to use the restroom. Once inside, he closed and locked the door—something he never did—and stared at his pale face in the mirror. “I don’t even recognize you anymore.”
He turned on the cold water and splashed a large handful in his face. He tried to sort out his thoughts, going back to the fire and working forward from there. He hadn’t felt any fear during the rescue attempt. He had been so intent on getting Lance out of the car that he hadn’t even considered what would happen if he got hurt. Afterward, it was a different story. He began imagining Claire’s and Delilah’s lives without him. He thought about Delilah graduating kindergarten, high school, and college without him being there. What if Claire would’ve found someone else by then and that someone else would’ve been there for Delilah? Would she still miss him, or would his memory have faded from her little mind?
That line of thought had segued to him wondering about Lance’s children and wife. Who would be there for them now that Lance was dead? And what if Lance was dead because he hadn’t tried hard enough to save him? Could he have done more to help the man?
The self-doubt formed in the lower pit of Melvin’s stomach and slowly worked its way upward. He felt sick—
“Hey, are you okay in there?” Claire jingled the knob. “What’s going on?”
“I just feel sick,” he mumbled, sweat forming on his forehead. He felt lightheaded. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
CHAPTER 17
Four hours later…
Melvin lifted his head from the sofa pillow and glanced over at the clock. It was a little before eleven. After vomiting several times earlier in the night, he’d convinced Claire he had a stomach virus from something he’d eaten. While it didn’t stop her from fretting, it did end the relentless interrogation, and Melvin was finally able to stretch out on the sofa to be alone with his thoughts.
At eight-thirty, when Claire had tried to get him to go to bed with her, he’d pretended to be asleep. He’d heard her whisper to Delilah that it was time for bed and the two of them had tiptoed out of the living room. A few minutes later, Claire had returned and softly kissed his head, then tiptoed to bed.
Since that kiss, Melvin had been staring up at the ceiling, listening to the seconds tick by on the wall clock. Still, even after so many hours since the fire, he saw Lance Beaman every time he closed his eyes. A few times during the night he had jerked in his skin when he thought he heard a guttural moan from the front yard. He’d even walked outside the first time and looked around, but nothing was there.
I’m going crazy, he thought. He was smart enough to know that people who went through traumatic events sometimes suffered from post traumatic stress disorder, but he knew that couldn’t happen to him. He’d been through a lot in his career as a police officer and nothing had ever bothered him to this extent. No, it’s got to be something else.
An hour later, and still unable to sleep, Melvin threw his feet to the ground and sat there trying to recreate everything that had happened yesterday morning. He remembered running around trying to save Lance, but he couldn’t visualize a blow-by-blow account of his actions. Everything seemed blurry in his mind. He did remember something about a ledger and talking to a man who seemed to be the owner of the house where it happened, but he couldn’t remember what the man looked like.
As hard as he tried to remember everything else, Lance’s burning body was crystal clear in his mind’s eye. Why is that? Is it because I failed the man? he wondered. What if I could’ve done more to save him? Melvin suddenly couldn’t breathe. Why didn’t I just open the door and pull him out?
He struggled to remember what the car looked like. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t remember why he hadn’t simply opened the door and pulled Lance to safety. He strained until his head hurt, but he couldn’t remember seeing the door handles. For that matter, he couldn’t remember what any of the surrounding area looked like. The only image that stuck was that of the burning body and the awful moaning. What if there was nothing wrong with the door handles? What if I was too afraid to try to open the door?
The thought sickened him and he felt like vomiting again. If that was the case, then it was his fault that Lance was dead. Feeling dizzy and weak, he sighed heavily and stood to his feet. He needed to see those door handles. If they were intact, he didn’t know what he would do with himself. He needed to know the truth and he needed to know now, or he might never sleep again. Maybe if he spent some time out at the scene it would help him work through whatever was going on in his head.
Taking great care not to make any noise, he went to the laundry room and pulled a pair of jeans from a top shelf and slipped them on. He then pulled on his boots and grabbed the keys to his police truck. He hesitated. His pistol was in the gun safe in his bedroom. If he went for it, he might disturb Claire’s sleep, but it was a chance he’d have to take. There was a murderer out there and he needed to keep a gun on him at all times.
After quietly retrieving his pistol and the magazine, he stole out of the bedroom and made his way outside, where he loaded his pistol and shoved it in the back of his waistband. He then jumped in his truck and headed to Rupe’s Dealership, which was just north of the Mechant Loup Bridge, and it was where Lance’s car had been towed. Randall Rupe had been the original owner of the dealership before he died, and it was now being operated by his wife.
Once at the dealership, Melvin parked his truck in front of the building and grabbed a flashlight before walking around to the back, where the storage yard was located. Shoving the flashlight in his back pocket and making sure his pistol was secure in his belt, he scaled the chain link fence and dropped down on the other side. He pulled out the flashlight and made his way through the dark shadows, searching for the burnt car. He found it in a covered area all alone, wrapped in crime scene tape.
His stomach was in knots and his hands were sweating. He was afraid to look, but he knew he had to. Taking one uncertain step at a time, as though the car were a bomb that might go off, he picked his way through the gravel lot. He stopped when he was close enough to see the car. With a trembling hand, he aimed the flashlight forward, but kept his eyes trained on the ground. Finally, he slowly lifted his head, bracing himself for what he would find—
Melvin let out an audible gulp of relief that sounded animalistic and he dropped to his knees when he saw that the door handles were nothing but a melted mess. It took him a few long minutes to recover from the revelation. While there was still a lingering doubt that he could’ve done more, he felt a little more relieved. He pulled himself slowly to his feet and approached the car. He took his time, examining every inch of the car.
“Damn,” he said out loud, “I didn’t remember it being this bad.”
It was apparent that the fire department had used their “jaws of life” tool to free Lance from the melted mess. Melvin hadn’t remembered seeing any of it. Everything had seemed like a bright blur of light emitting from the floodlights and he had wanted to distance himself from the immediate scene.
He took a calming breath and walked away, making a mental note to revisit the place if he ever started having doubts about his actions. He drove toward Mechant Loup-North and flipped off his headlights as he reached the end of North Boulevard, where the burn stains were still pre
valent on the street. Not wanting to rouse the occupants of the mansion, he stepped out of his truck and eased the door shut, careful not to make a sound. Moving by the distant glow from the mansion lights, he studied the ground where Lance’s car had been, then the truck that his car had crashed into—it didn’t look like it had been moved—and then he moved toward the curb. Taking out his flashlight and aiming the beam of light skyward, he studied the tree branches above.
“Damn, the fire was hot.” He hadn’t remembered the trees being on fire, but many of the branches were charred. Feeling a little better about his efforts, he sighed deeply and started to return to his truck—
A branch suddenly snapped behind him. He whirled around, stabbing the darkness with his light and reaching for his pistol. “Who’s there?”
A brilliant orange glow suddenly flashed from the shadows of the trees and the violent explosion of a gunshot startled him. Not even knowing if he was hit, Melvin dropped to the ground and scrambled frantically toward his truck. Before he could reach it, another shot was fired. Specks of pulverized concrete peppered the right side of his face. Melvin remembered reaching for his pistol when he had heard the branch snap, but he didn’t realize it was in his hand until that moment.
Knowing he would never make it to his truck in time and that the next bullet would probably end him, he rotated around until his feet were facing the clumps of trees from whence the shots were being fired. Lying on his back and aiming between his feet, he fired three shots in quick succession, trying to spray the area from which the gunshots had come. He then pushed off with his right foot and rolled twice toward his truck. He stopped and fired three more shots in the direction of the shooter, then rolled toward his truck again. After shooting and performing one last roll, he finally reached the truck and scurried around to the front bumper, putting the engine block between him and the shooter.
“Who the hell are you?” he hollered, surprised by how calm his voice sounded. He was trembling on the inside. With his back against the truck, he scanned the area to his right and left. What if the shooter was circling around in the darkness, trying to get a bead on him? “I’ve got backup coming! They’ll be here any minute and they’re going to kill you! The only chance you’ve got to make it out of here alive is to throw down your gun and come out where I can see you!”
The shooter didn’t reply and Melvin was unable to detect movement from anywhere. It could mean the shooter was gone, or it could mean the person was skilled at stealth movement.
Melvin did a quick mental inventory and realized he’d fired nine rounds from his fifteen-round magazine, which left him with six bullets. He cursed himself silently for not topping off his mag after cycling a round into the chamber earlier at home, but he hadn’t wanted to return to the bedroom and risk waking Claire.
When he hadn’t heard anything in several minutes, he turned to peak around the front driver side corner of his truck. A gunshot immediately exploded from the trees and he heard the subtle thunk of lead penetrating soft metal. He quickly retracted his head and muttered some profanity, first directed at the shooter, and then at himself for not considering earlier that the killer might return to the scene.
Melvin licked his lips, trying to come up with a plan. There was a deep drainage ditch to the south that paralleled the boulevard. If he made a run for it and reached the ditch, he would be home free, but the chances of him getting mowed down were too great. Damn, boy, he thought, this might be it for you.
A thought occurred to him. If he died out here, Claire would forever wonder why he’d left the house without telling her. She would wonder what he was doing out here, as would everyone, and she would wonder about his behavior earlier in the day. He suddenly gritted his teeth. There was no way he could go out like this and leave her with questions.
After taking a deep breath, he quickly rolled to his feet and maintained a deep squat, careful not to raise his head above the hood of his truck. One small side-step at a time, he scooted toward the passenger side of his truck. His phone was on the center console and his shotgun was secured in the mount near the inside of the passenger seat. If he could get to them, this would all be over in minutes. He’d call for backup and then start blasting that son of a—
He suddenly cocked his head to the side, listening intently. A soft breeze blew in from the south, carrying with it the sound of sirens. He smiled. Someone had heard the shots and called the police department. “They’re coming for you!” he shouted. “Your ass is mine!”
Suddenly, gunshots erupted from the trees in rapid succession and bullets began smacking into his truck. It seemed as though the bullets were impacting the driver side, so he scurried closer to the passenger side and hunkered down, praying he wouldn’t be hit by a random round. As he squatted there—his pistol gripped tightly in both hands—he had a daunting revelation; the shooter was rushing his position!
CHAPTER 18
Tuesday, April 25
Clint and Susan’s house
It was a little after one in the morning and I was still sitting up in bed with my laptop, poring over the surveillance footage from M & P Grill. Susan and I had showered earlier and then retired to the bedroom together, me to get some work done and her to finish reading Night Over The Solomons by Louis L’Amour. She’d begun the book while we were on the cruise, but hadn’t had a chance to finish it—and she wasn’t going to finish it tonight. I don’t think she’d flipped two pages before I heard her breathing drop to a low and steady whisper.
I was tired, too, and wanted to call it a night, but I needed to know what time Pauline returned to her house after leaving the grocery store on Sunday evening. I’d already viewed enough tape to know she wasn’t home at the time of the murder, so her alibi was mud. I was just finishing up the three o’clock hour on the tape when Susan’s phone began ringing from the other side of the bed. I had never answered her phone before, but I was tempted to do so now. I wanted to tell whoever it was to leave her the hell alone and let her get some sleep. I was too late.
“What’s going on?” Susan pushed to one elbow. Thanks to the glow from my laptop, I could see her staring through squinting eyes. She looked disoriented. “Why’s the alarm going off? It’s not six o’clock yet.”
I tried not to laugh. “It’s your phone, Honey.”
Groaning, she rolled to the opposite edge of the bed and fumbled around in the dark, trying to locate her phone on the end table. I heard something hit the floor and then I heard her curse. She lunged forward, nearly sliding off the bed, and then gave a triumphant cry when she came up with it in her hand, holding it like a war chief who’d just taken a prized scalp. She cursed again when it stopped ringing before she could answer it. “Oh, it’s the office,” she muttered. “What the hell do they want?”
She rubbed her eyes to see better and then fumbled with the screen, trying to call them back. Before she could initiate the call, the phone started ringing again. “Hey, this is Susan, what’s up?” I saw her sit straight up in bed, fully alert. “Well, who’s doing the shooting?” She paused to listen to the nightshift dispatcher, who was Marsha. “Is anyone down?” She paused to listen. “Okay, we’re heading that way pronto.”
I was out of the bed and already sliding into my jeans by the time she hung up the phone.
“There’s some kind of gun battle going down in Mechant Loup-North,” she said, pulling on her bra and then searching her closet for some jeans. “Chet Robichaux called and said he heard two gunshots from one gun, and then he heard about ten shots from what sounded like another gun.” After her jeans were buttoned, she grabbed her boots, turned them upside down to shake them out, and then shoved her feet inside. “He thinks it’s a genuine shootout.”
I chased Susan down the stairway. “Is anyone down?”
“He doesn’t know. He was going to retrieve his shotgun and go outside, but Marsha told him to stay inside and wait for Amy.”
“Is your unit okay?” she asked when we rushed out the door. “I n
eed gas.”
I nodded and we both climbed into my unmarked. “Does Amy have backup?”
“Marsha called the sheriff’s office and they’re sending a deputy, but we’ll probably get there first.”
She was right, because I was already turning off of Paradise Place and heading north on Main, driving as fast as my Tahoe could go. There was no traffic along Main Street at this hour, and I was happy for that. It allowed me to push the engine to its limit. I was also happy that the news van was nowhere to be seen. Maybe they had gotten tired of getting the runaround and decided to leave town.
I was approaching the Mechant Loup Bridge when the radio scratched to life and Amy’s excited voice came through. Her siren was blaring in the background, but we heard her plainly: “Headquarters, I’m ninety-seven [on the scene] on North Boulevard and heading to the back. I hear gunshots! I repeat…shots fired!”
I touched the brakes when we hit the ramp to the bridge, but it didn’t slow us down enough to cushion the blow. The jolt was so rough my head would’ve hit the ceiling had I not been strapped in. Susan threw both hands to the dash and held on for dear life. I muttered an apology and started slowing as we approached North Boulevard. My tires screeched as I made the turn.
“There!” Susan pointed toward the end of the street, where we could see the blue lights flashing on Amy’s cruiser. As we sped forward, we could see a truck parked in the middle of the right side of the boulevard. “Oh, my God, that’s Melvin’s truck!”
I smashed the brakes and my vehicle screeched to a stop. Susan and I bailed and took a quick glance around. There was no one in sight. I hurried to Melvin’s truck, but lurched to a stop when I saw that the entire driver side was peppered with bullet holes. The ground was littered with spent shell casings. “Susan, you’ve got to see this!”
