by John Foxjohn
His gaze searched, but only found people lying on the sidewalks—wide eyes staring at him. With his senses returning, his survival instinct screamed at him and he rolled, attempting to find cover. How much time had passed since the shot? It felt like hours but he knew only moments had passed. He rolled behind a four-inch pipe that stood close to the street with a light perched on top. Not much cover from a bullet, but all that he could find.
He searched, but couldn’t find the shooter or where the shot came from. When a police car fishtailed to a stop in front of him, he jumped up and lunged toward Morgan.
The agent lay on his back, almost floating in a blood pool.
Morgan stared at the heavens.
Kneeling, he knew it was no use, but checked Morgan’s pulse, anyway. Tears dripped down his cheeks. Oblivious to sirens, blaring radios, and skidding tires, he reached with a trembling hand and closed the agent’s eyes.
Morgan had saved his life, but if David had listened to the warning signs—been more alert, there would not have been a need to save him and Morgan would be alive. He would have to live with this.
He sat beside the dead agent, arms around his knees, forehead resting on his kneecaps, gun still in his hand. Feet and voices rushed by. He glanced up when a hand rested on his shoulder.
Sheriff Lambert knelt beside him. “Are you hit?”
He shook his head, but didn’t know. He didn’t think he was, but became aware of blood covering him. Was it his or Morgan’s?
As he glanced around, his eyes widened. Morgan was gone. An ambulance sat nearby, back doors open with a covered body inside, lights flashing on top.
He had no idea that anyone had removed Morgan’s body or started processing the crime scene. What had happened to him? Where had he gone?
He didn’t know if a bullet struck him, but he had received a wound—one that if he did recover from, would leave a lasting pain.
CHAPTER 33
As Melissa laughed at one of Andy’s jokes, she reached for the ringing phone. She had secured a room across from theirs at the motel and she and Andy took turns watching. Stunned at what she heard, the expression on her face made Andy leap up.
When she hung up, she stared at the wall. She didn’t know what to do. As Andy demanded to know what was going on, she held up a finger and grabbed the phone. She dialed Melvin’s number and told him to get over to the stake out room right away. When he asked if that would ruin the stake out, she yelled, “Get over here now.”
In total bewilderment, Andy, shocked at her words and tone, stared at her.
A couple of minutes later, Melvin rushed in. “What’s going on?”
Andy shrugged and indicated Melissa, who had her back to them.
“Melvin, you will take over here for me. I am going to Nacogdoches.”
Andy put his hands on hips. “Dammit! What is going on?”
Melissa turned, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Someone ambushed David and Morgan as they came out of the bank in Nacogdoches. Morgan’s dead and David’s on the way to the hospital. That’s all I know. Stay here and keep up the surveillance. I’ll call and let you know.”
Stunned, the two agents said nothing as she raced out the door.
Her tires burned rubber, throwing gravel as she whipped out of the parking lot. She turned on the loop and watched as the speedometer hit one hundred. She pounded on the wheel and screamed in frustration.
She looked up as a vehicle in front of her slowed. She swerved to the right lane, fishtailing with a blaring horn of the vehicle she cut off. Getting control of the car, she again gunned the motor, but not as fast now.
Halfway around the loop, a highway patrol’s flashing lights in her rearview and the wail of a siren didn’t surprise her. This time she checked before slowing and moving to the right. When the car stopped, she jumped out, badge in hand. “FBI agent. I have an emergency in Nacogdoches.”
The officer yelled, “Follow me,” and jumped into his unit.
Seconds later, Melissa followed the highway patrolman at a high rate of speed. Tears blurred her eyes. David had to be okay for her sake, Beth’s, everyone’s. He had to live. Please God, let him be okay. Her entire body shook with the death grip she had on the steering wheel.
With her escort, trees, rivers, and other vehicles whipped by, and cars moved out of the way as they entered Nacogdoches. The trooper must have radioed ahead because at several intersections, sheriff’s cars and police cars blocked traffic for them. Scared for David, she couldn’t help but marvel at the local cooperation. She’d heard horror stories about how locals treated agents. She knew that the agents brought a lot of this on themselves, and David had said that cops were a lot like dogs, they wanted to protect their territory from outsiders.
Sliding into the emergency room parking lot, she slammed her door, waved at the trooper, and sprinted in. A nurse directed her to room four.
When she entered, her breath came out in a loud swoosh and she put her hand on the wall to help hold her weak knees up. Tears welled in her eyes. David sat on the edge of the examining table, his shirt open, dried blood on his shirt and pants.
At first, she bit her lip to stop it from trembling. She wanted so much to rush to him, hold him, kiss him, tell him she loved him. She couldn’t do that for several reasons besides the fact he was her boss. He belonged to another woman—a good woman, and she had many faults but stealing husbands wasn’t one of them. Besides, David wouldn’t do it, either.
He broke the strained silence between them. “Morgan’s dead.”
She nodded, not trusting her voice. After several strained moments, she wiped her face. “What happened?”
He closed his eyes a moment, then stood and buttoned his shirt. Turning his back on her, he undid his pants and tucked the shirt in, fastened his belt, and turned around. “We walked into an ambush. Coming out of the bank, I had my mind elsewhere.” David’s voice cracked like fire burning dry wood. “Lucky for me, Morgan didn’t. He must have seen the shooter. He pushed me out of the way and took the bullet meant for me.”
Melissa’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh my God! Did he say if he saw the shooter? Who it was?”
“He never said a word. He died almost instantly. When he shoved me out of the way, he turned his side to the shooter. Bullet went in under his right arm, through both lungs, his heart, and exited the other side.”
David put on his shoulder holster as Melissa dropped her head, tears spilling onto the floor.
A nurse entered with a form on a clipboard. She handed it to David, who scribbled his name, and thrust it at the nurse.
On the way out, David stopped at a pay phone. Melissa told him where she parked and she’d wait for him there.
First, he made a difficult call to Beeker. Not only had he failed to bring the killer in, now he got one of his agents killed. To his surprise, Beeker said little. He told David someone from the bureau would come and arrange to ship the body home. He also told David to call him that evening.
When Beeker hung up, David held the silent phone to his ear for several moments. Beeker’s last words still rebounding in his head, “I need to talk to the director. See what we’re going to do about this situation.”
* * * *
Melissa had a hard time finding a parking space around the area where the shooting occurred. Besides all the emergency vehicles in the area, traffic crawled down Main Street—ten times more traffic than normal. Harried police officers stood in the street attempting to get rubbernecks to move on through, while the smarter rubbernecks, or the first ones to swoop to the area, had parked and stood on sidewalks whispering to each other.
When they did find a space, it was in the Shepard’s Restaurant parking lot, located at Main and North Street, four blocks away from the crime scene. As they advanced down the north side of Main Street toward the bank, all eyes groped at them, following their every move. David kept his eyes straight ahead, but conscious of the stares and his bloody clothes.
As they ap
proached the door of the bank, a young patrolman stopped them. Exasperated, David flashed his badge and told him he wanted to speak to whoever took charge of the scene. Instead of using his walkie-talkie, the patrolman told them to wait a minute and he would get the sheriff.
Without speaking, David and Melissa examined the area. The bank, located on the north side of the square at the corner, sat catty-corner to the library sitting in the center. A street on the southeast corner that led away from the square drew David’s attention. On the corner with a good view of the front of the bank sat an old building made from the same colored bricks as the street. If Morgan took the round under his right arm, the shot could have only come from a few places. The shooter would need to be in front of them and not at an angle. The only place he could see that fit that scenario was the old red brick building.
Melissa came to the same conclusion. She pointed to it. “He could have fired from one of the upstairs rooms in that building.”
Before David could say no, a voice behind them interrupted. “The shot couldn’t have come from high up. Had to come from ground level.”
When they turned, Sheriff Joe Lambert stepped forward and put his hand on David’s shoulder. “Thought you were hit, too, for a while there. You okay?”
David nodded but didn’t say anything. He didn’t know if he could express his feelings without getting emotional. Melissa rescued him from responding when she asked why the shot couldn’t come from high up.
“If the shooter fired from up higher, the bullet would have hit and traveled down at an angle. It would have exited lower than the entrance. Mind you, this is all a guess since we don’t have the medical examiner’s report, but that bullet appeared to hit and go straight through—exiting almost on the same angle it entered.”
Melissa brushed a strand of hair. “Thanks. Fired from ground level.”
“Yep.”
As they talked, David’s mind shifted into another gear, picturing the area, putting himself in the head of the shooter. If he fired that shot, where would he shoot from, how would he get away?
Without saying anything, he eased over to the bloodstains on the sidewalk in front of the bank and faced the old building across the square. Aware that Melissa and the sheriff followed, he began pacing off the distance, stopped at the corner to wait for an ease in the traffic and continued to pace across the square until he came to the corner of the old building.
Lambert removed his straw hat and pushed non-existent hair back from his forehead. David figured this gesture must be a habit from the time when he did have hair. After the sheriff put his hat on, he asked, “How far?”
“Three-hundred and eighty-seven feet.”
Lambert brought out his package of tobacco and stuck a chaw in the cheek. He put the package back, spat a blob and wiped his mouth. “That’s a good shot, but not impossible. Most people in East Texas could make it.”
David agreed. This was deer hunting country. “Has this area been searched yet?”
“Nope, but I’ll get them on it.”
David pointed to a narrow opening between the old building and the fire station. “I’m looking right there.”
He eased into the opening with Melissa following. He took measured steps, stopped and let his gaze shift from close to far, took another step, and stopped. Close to the old building, a spent rifle casing lay amongst debris.
He smacked his lips a moment. “Looks like a 30-30.”
Melissa didn’t respond, but eased back when David did. When she got Lambert’s attention, she waved him over. She pointed. “Spent casing.”
He nodded, got a walkie-talkie out of his pants pocket, and called someone to process the area.
David didn’t wait. He walked in front of the old building and down the side opposite to the opening where the casing lay. At the back of the building, they found an empty gravel parking lot. He stood, tapping on his lips. Fired the shot and probably dashed to the car parked here and drove away while all the excitement went on. Everyone would have been so busy ducking, or trying to find out what was going on, all their attention focused away from where the shooter parked and fired.
When Lambert found them, he again took his hat off and smoothed his bald spot. “We’re interviewing everyone in this area, but so far, no one saw the shooter or even where the shot came from. We have nothing.”
“Figured as much.”
After several hours of standing around watching the combined sheriff and police departments process the crime scene and interview people who saw nothing, David had had enough. The police department had cleared out all the spectators and got smart, blocking the street off. Earlier, Melissa called Andy and Melvin and told them what had happened, and he called John in Houston for a status report, but nothing had changed.
Several news crews had set up outside the cordoned off crime scene and interviewed the sheriff and police chief, and anyone else that would talk to them, but David refused to comment.
He approached Lambert, who stood beside his unmarked car. “Do you need us here?”
“No. We’ll get an official statement later. No hurry on it at the moment.”
David extended his hand. “Thanks Joe.”
“De nada.”
* * * *
When they reached the motel, David opened his door and gave the key to Melissa. “I’m going to take a shower and change clothes. Pull Andy and Melvin off the stakeout and all of you wait for me in my suite.”
“You don’t want to continue it?”
“It’s not working. Been watching it past the time the tape ran out already. If he hasn’t changed it by now, he isn’t going to. Must have seen us or something, but I bet you they know it is compromised.”
Melissa reached up and rubbed the back of her hand across his cheek. “Take a long, hot shower. You need it.”
David started a pot of coffee, got a fresh suit out of the closet, and took it with him. He hadn’t realized how tense he was until he got under the hot shower. Burying his face in his hands, he sat on the floor of the shower as water pelted his head and back. He had gotten one of his men killed. Not sure what he could’ve done to prevent it, it was still his fault. He had the responsibility and now had to live with it. Now, he must ensure none of the others died.
When he walked into the living area, he stopped in mid-stride. Sitting in the suite with the others was none other than Assistant Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Thomas Beeker.
David knew he was in a world of shit.
* * * *
David padded across the room, poured himself a cup of coffee, poured another one, and dumped a sugar and spoon of creamer in it and stirred. If anyone saw his outward appearance, they would believe nothing in the world had happened, but his insides were mush.
He walked back, handed the doctored one to Beeker, and plopped down.
Beeker nodded to the others who rose and left without a word. He crossed his legs and took a sip. “David, tell me what went on here.”
He related what he and Morgan did before the shooting, what they found out, and about the fired shot when they walked out of the bank. Beeker sipped for several minutes without saying anything. David rose and got more coffee.
When he sat, Beeker put his cup on the table in front of him and rested his elbows on his knees. “Nothing you or anyone could do about that. I’m sure you know this, but when a law enforcement member dies in the line of duty, it’s usually because he makes a mistake. The exception to that is a sniper, and that’s what hit you.”
David sipped his coffee. He did know that, but appreciated Beeker telling him. However, he didn’t believe Beeker hot-footed it to Lufkin, Texas, from Washington just to tell him something like that. Could have said that on the phone.
He waited for the other shoe to drop and he didn’t have a doubt in the world that it would. The only question left, what would he do when it did? He would not walk away from this one, even if he had to resign and investigate as a civilian. Someone kil
led Justin and several others. That same one just took a shot at him. There was no doubt that bullet had his name on it. But it missed, thanks to Morgan. Morgan didn’t save his life and die in the process so David could tuck his tail between his legs and leave. That would not happen.
Beeker took a deep breath. “David, I’m going to be frank with you. The director wants to take you and your team off this and put others in. I talked him into giving you seventy-two more hours.”
David steepled his fingers and rested his chin on them. “What happens in seventy-two hours?”
“If you don’t know who the person is, we relieve your team and send in others. Your team will return to Washington to await orders.”
“Thank you, director, for telling me, but I am not going anywhere until this killer is either dead or behind bars.”
“You won’t have a choice.”
Yes, sir, I will. I will mail my resignation to you. If you decide to send me to Washington for reassignment, you need to have my paperwork done. I didn’t come down here to quit or leave early. Nor will I.”
Before Beeker left, he handed David a large envelope. “These are the papers you need to fill out on the shooting death of an agent in the line of duty. Included are insurance forms. We need them completed and returned as soon as possible.
After he left, David sat on the sofa for a long time thinking. At last, he called Beth, realizing how good a decision he’d made by not asking her to come down. When he told her, it took all his persuasive powers to talk her out of coming. She wanted to be with him at a time like this, but he believed it might be too dangerous. Morgan was not the target, but died because he was with David. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if something like that happened to Beth.
As he expected, she told him she would support him if he resigned or not.
When he hung up, he called the other agents in. They talked for a while about what to do, and left, not really resolving anything. At that moment, they had nothing but a witness in a coma who might not live—nothing else, unless the killer made a mistake.
