Sucker Punch

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  “Warrants of execution let us kill almost anyone or anything that’s associated with the crime, but the legalese doesn’t mention papers and files,” Newman said.

  “We can look at anything in plain sight, or if we have reasonable suspicion of something specific, but we’re just fishing here. If we find something, it could get thrown out on the grounds of the warrant not covering what we discover,” I said.

  “So, we leave the drawers alone,” he said.

  “We can peek inside them, but I’d rather not move shit around without a different kind of warrant.”

  “You’re the senior marshal on this one.”

  “I’ve got seniority, but it’s your warrant, so technically you’re the lead on this one,” I said.

  “It seems like every time we work together, the warrant starts out as mine,” he said.

  “No shame in signing it over to someone with skills you don’t have,” I said.

  “Have you ever signed a warrant over to another marshal?”

  “No, but remember, I’m one of the old-timers in this business. You young whippersnappers have things to learn. I’ve learned them already.”

  “You’re only two years older than me, Blake. You don’t get to call yourself an old-timer or me a whippersnapper. Who uses that word anymore?”

  “Apparently I do,” I said, but I was smiling as I opened the right-hand drawers to look but not touch.

  The second drawer down had a gun in it. I actually reached out to touch it but stopped myself. It hadn’t been in plain sight, and since there had been no shots fired in self-defense, we had no reason to think that Ray Marchand had a gun in his desk. I called Newman over to see it.

  “Why didn’t he use the gun?” he asked.

  “We already said it: He trusted them and didn’t think they were a threat.”

  “A shapeshifter that has lost control looks like a threat,” Newman said.

  “Maybe Bobby moved too fast for him to go for the gun?” I asked, playing devil’s advocate.

  We both looked at the door, trying to visualize the scene. The leopard could potentially make the leap from the door to the desk. “Were all the drawers closed like this?”

  “As far as I remember, yes.”

  “Ask around to anyone else that was a first responder. Just ask if they noticed anything moved, disturbed, or open in the desk area besides the stuff on top being on the floor,” I said.

  “And if no one remembers the drawer being open?” Newman asked.

  “Ray was prepared to defend himself. Even if the leopard hit the door and made the leap to the desk, the drawer should have been open. I’m not saying he’d have had time to draw the gun and aim, let alone shoot. You know how fast shapeshifters move.”

  “So, he opens the drawer, and then the leopard is slashing at him. He does have defensive wounds on his arms.”

  “The leap could have knocked over the lamp, and the struggle cleared the desk,” I said.

  “Are we trying to figure out how Bobby did it, or how someone else did it?” he asked.

  “We’re trying to get to the truth,” I said.

  He nodded. “Okay. Now what?”

  “I’d really like to make sure that gun is loaded and if it’s silver-plated ammo.”

  We looked back down at the gun. Could we check the gun for ammo by saying we didn’t want to leave a loaded gun unattended in a house where there’d already been one murder, or was it outside the purview of our legal authority?

  The doors opened, and Sheriff Leduc came through like he owned the place. Whatever had been wrong, he’d stuffed it back into its box. He was Duke Leduc again as he said, “Troy found your warrant on the computer, Marshal Newman. Time to take you back to town so you can do your duty.”

  “Having the warrant just makes it legal to kill the prisoner. It doesn’t mean I have to do it as soon as I get the paper in my hands,” Newman said.

  “Troy says the date on the warrant is the night of the murder. So your original seventy-two hours is down to less than sixty according to the information on the warrant. You have to finish the warrant before the deadline’s up. You’re running out of time to do your duty, Win.”

  “Don’t you mean Bobby’s running out of time?” Newman said.

  “I’m beginning to think you’re a coward, Win.”

  “And I’m beginning to think you’re an asshole,” I said, “but let’s not go calling each other names.” I used my phone to take a picture of the gun. If it was loaded with silver bullets, then it just pointed more guilt at Bobby, because it meant that his uncle had been afraid of him.

  “What are you taking a picture of?”

  “A gun,” I said.

  “Ray always had a loaded gun for protection in his desk.”

  “Nice of you to share that,” I said.

  “Well, us assholes aren’t big on sharing.”

  “I’m sorry I called you a name, but compassion isn’t the same thing as cowardice.”

  “No, he’s right, Blake,” Newman said. “I don’t know if I’m brave enough to kill Bobby.”

  “That doesn’t make you a coward, Newman.”

  “What does it make me?” he asked.

  “Human.”

  17

  THE ONLY GOOD thing about the time on the warrant starting the night of the murder was that it convinced Kaitlin and Livingston to help us. They would meet us at the jail after Kaitlin made an impression or copy of the bloody footprints at the house. If they matched, Bobby was a lying bastard and almost certainly guilty, but if they didn’t, then at least our little group would have reasonable doubt. It would take longer to get the judge on the warrant to be on board, but you have to start somewhere.

  Duke was still in his vehicle as Newman and I pulled up. Because of the overhead light, we could see him talking on his phone. The driver’s-side door was open already, as if the phone call had caught him in the middle of exiting his car. We parked and walked toward him.

  He hit MUTE on the phone and said, “It’s my wife. You two go ahead. Tell Troy that you need your warrant. He said he’d printed it out for you.”

  We both nodded and started toward the building, but not before we heard him say, “I’ll be home as soon as I can, honey. I know she’s in pain, but she doesn’t want hospice-level meds yet.”

  Newman and I both hurried just a little, as if we’d eavesdropped on something too personal, and I guess we had. I didn’t have kids, but I couldn’t imagine having to watch someone I loved die like that.

  Newman paused at the door of the tiny police station. “Jesus, hospice-level meds.”

  “I’m not sure what that means,” I said.

  He put his hand on the doorknob but didn’t turn it. “It’s when they give them so many pain meds they just sleep pain free until the end. When doctors offer you hospice care, then it’s over. You’re just waiting for the body to give out.”

  It sounded like Newman had experienced it personally in some way. I debated whether I should pry or keep to the guy code of never asking about personal stuff. I was still debating when we heard the gunshot. It sounded like it had come from inside the building. Our guns appeared in our hands like magic, and we went through the door toward the gunfire.

  18

  I WOULD HAVE checked the room as we entered to make sure nothing was hiding behind a desk or something, but Newman ran straight toward the far door and the cells. I stayed at his six because I was his backup, but it was careless, and careless could get us both killed. We had seconds to see that the office area was empty, and then we both went for the door to the cells. Newman didn’t even check if it was locked; he just reared back and kicked the door right next to the doorknob and lock. The door burst inward, because not only hadn’t it been locked, it hadn’t been securely shut, so the door smacked into the wall and came back at us wit
h way too much force. Newman caught it with one arm, and with the other kept his gun pointed into the room. I was at his back with my gun out, pointed at the floor, but the safety was off, finger on the trigger. Shots fired meant “gun safety” was hitting what was shooting at you.

  There was a man in the now familiar uniform of the local cops aiming between the bars of a cell. I had a second to notice he was tall, thin, but I was mostly trying to aim around Newman’s body without crossing him with the barrel of my gun. I didn’t even bother to look inside the cage. Whatever had been done was done in that second. There was nothing at the end of the short hallway but the man, shoulders rounded, gun still in hand. It wasn’t pointed at us, but Newman and I were both yelling.

  He yelled, “Put the gun down!”

  I yelled, “Drop the gun!”

  The deputy turned and looked at us. I had a moment to see he was pale, with huge eyes in a face that looked shocked, but his hands with the gun still in them turned with him, and I yelled, “Drop it!”

  Newman yelled, “Don’t make us shoot you, Troy. Don’t make us do it!”

  I finally went to one knee against the wall opposite the cell, so I had a clear shot at the deputy without endangering Newman or accidentally shooting into the cell. It’d be a bitch to accidentally shoot the person we were trying to save.

  If the shooter hadn’t been another cop, I’d have shot him moments before, but then he dropped his gun. The only thing that had saved him was the uniform. Newman kicked the gun toward me. I changed my grip on my gun from two-handed to one- and picked up the dropped gun. Loose guns were bad guns. I clicked the safety on, got to my feet, and moved around so I could keep an eye on the deputy as Newman put him on the ground and secured his hands behind his back.

  I heard something behind us, and I had the second gun up and pointed before I could think anything. I just reacted. I even thumbed the safety off, and my finger was on the trigger. I didn’t have time to wonder if Wagner had messed with his trigger pull and lightened it from out-of-the-box standard. If he’d made it a hair trigger, then potentially someone else was about to get shot. I was okay with it, because a cop should have known better than to walk up on people when the guns came out.

  Sheriff Leduc put his hands up without me asking; he also stopped moving closer. Good, it would be a shame to have to shoot him in his own jail.

  My peripheral vision is above average. I could keep half an eye on Newman kneeling on the deputy and still watch the sheriff. Newman pulled the cuffed man to his feet.

  I spoke very carefully, each word as cautious as the touch of my finger on the unfamiliar trigger. “You got that one?”

  “I got him,” Newman said.

  I turned toward the sheriff, bringing my gun up to bear on him as I lowered Wagner’s gun toward the floor. I took my finger off that trigger but left the safety off. One of his deputies had just shot one of his prisoners in his own jail. It might mean that Duke would be okay with it. Besides, he’d already pointed a gun at me once. I wasn’t going to let him get the drop on me twice.

  “Ease down there, Anita,” the sheriff said.

  “Fuck you, and it’s Marshal Blake to you.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  He stood very still, hands up. He was doing his best to not piss us off further. That was great, because we needed to look in the cell and know if we were calling an ambulance or the coroner. How had I not looked in the cell before? The armed person always takes my attention first. Enough people shoot at you and it’s like you acquire this tunnel vision that cuts out all the unnecessary shit. The exception to that rule is if someone you love is involved. Then you’re fucked because you notice too much. You’re never at your best if you love someone in the room, unless they’re as well armed as you are. Then it’s like gangster date night.

  “Ease down, Blake,” Newman said. “It’s over.”

  I thought he meant our prisoner was dead, which made me gamble a quick glance into the cell. Bobby wasn’t there. What the fuck? I looked back at the sheriff to make sure he was still holding his hands up like a good boy, and risked a second, longer look into the cell. My eyes had registered the broken chains because when I saw them now, I wasn’t surprised. A corner of blanket underneath the bunk let me know that Bobby had taken the only cover the cell offered. He was hiding under the bed like a little kid who’s afraid of the closet monster, but this monster had a badge and a gun, and there was nowhere to hide. I had to look back at Leduc, but there’d been no visible fresh blood in the cell. That didn’t mean much, but it was the only hope I had for Bobby’s survival, so I took it. He could be dead later, but until I saw him that way, I’d keep believing that he was alive and that we could save him.

  “I am not a danger to you, Marshal Blake, I swear,” Sheriff Leduc said.

  “I know, because I’m pointing a gun at you.”

  He sighed hard enough for the bulk around his middle to go up and down. “May I put my hands down?”

  “No. If you want a different position, lace them over your head.”

  Deputy Wagner was babbling as Newman got him on his feet. “I couldn’t do it. We were teammates. Got all the way to states our junior year. I know he’s a monster, but he’s still Bobby, too.”

  And there in the babbling of a soon-to-be ex-deputy was the real problem with shapeshifters: They turned into big, dangerous beasts at least once a month, but the rest of the time, they were still themselves. It made it so much harder to put them down in human form, but only a fool with a death wish waited for them to turn furry before trying to kill them.

  Leduc had put his hands on his head, but it looked like it was an effort for him to keep them there, or at least his uniform strained when he lifted his arms that much. He needed new uniforms or to start exercising so he actually fit into the ones he had. Either way, the tight sleeves would cost him a second or two if he had to draw his gun, which was still sitting on his duty belt.

  Newman was calling out, “Bobby, Bobby, are you hurt?”

  I risked another glance and saw an arm wave from under the bunk. I hoped that was an I’m-okay wave, but we’d need to see more of him before we’d be certain. He started crawling out from under the bunk, and what showed around the blanket still looked okay. I went from being happy that the deputy had missed to wondering how he could have missed from that close.

  “Bobby, are you all right?” Newman asked again.

  “What?” Bobby asked, frowning.

  I said to Newman, “The shot in this small a space probably rocked his hearing.”

  Newman yelled his question louder, and I heard Bobby Marchand say, “I . . . think so. I’m okay.”

  “May I put my arms down now, Marshal Blake?” Leduc asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “I think the danger is over, Blake,” Newman said.

  I glanced back and found Newman standing with the handcuffed Deputy Wagner in front of him. I double-checked the safety on Wagner’s gun and tucked it into my belt. It wasn’t perfect, but it would hold. I moved forward with my own gun still aimed at the sheriff.

  “Did you know that your deputy was in here trying to kill Bobby Marchand?” I asked. It was a stupid question to ask him, because all he had to do was say no, and I had no way to prove otherwise.

  “No. I was very clear with all my deputies that unless he started to change into animal form, they were to leave him for Newman.”

  “Blake, it’s okay,” Newman said.

  “You can put your arms down now,” I said, and holstered my weapon.

  Leduc did it slowly, as if he didn’t want to spook me even without a gun pointing at him. It meant he believed I might actually shoot him. It’s always nice when other cops take you seriously.

  “What the fuck, Troy?” Newman said. He sort of shook Wagner. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

  Duke said, �
�You didn’t find Raymond Marchand. Troy did. You didn’t find the boy in bed sleeping nude and covered in his uncle’s blood. We did.”

  “I came as soon as you called me, Duke,” Newman said.

  “I know that. You always come when we call. It’s been good having another lawman to call when we needed backup.”

  “You knew I was on the job, Troy. You should have let me handle it.”

  “But you weren’t handling it, Win. You called in Blake to help you save the monster, not kill it,” Troy Wagner said.

  “If I did that to Uncle Raymond, then I am a monster, and I deserve to die.” Bobby sat up on the bunk, huddling the blanket around him as if he was cold. Sometimes getting shot at makes you cold with shock. If we weren’t going to kill him, then we needed to find him more to wear.

  Leduc pointed at him. “Even the monster agrees with me.”

  “I said if I did it, Duke. I haven’t had a complete blackout in over ten years. I remember what I do when I’m in animal form. I remember what I did before I changed back that night, and none of it includes hurting Uncle Raymond.”

  “We found you covered in his blood, Bobby,” Wagner said, and his voice sounded like he was crying now.

  “I can’t explain that, but I wouldn’t hurt my uncle. I wouldn’t hurt anyone. I was with Jocelyn most of the evening. Ask her. She’ll tell you that she left me in the bedroom as I started to pass out from shapeshifting.”

  “Joshie hasn’t stopped crying since she found her stepdaddy’s body in a pool of blood. She was so hysterical, they had to sedate her,” Leduc said.

  “I would remember if I had done what you’re accusing me of, Duke.”

  Wagner said, “I can’t stop seeing Jocelyn kneeling on the floor, cradling her daddy, blood everywhere, her screaming, blood all over her, all over everything.”

  “Are you saying that Jocelyn was the one who found Uncle Raymond?” Bobby asked.

  “Yeah,” Wagner said, looking over his shoulder at the other man.

  Bobby Marchand looked stricken. That was the only word I had for it. “God, that’s awful.”