Alana Candler, Marked for Murder by Joanie Bruce Page B
Authors: Joanie Bruce
Tags: Fiction
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struggled to shield her from the force of the blast and flying debris.
TWENTY-THREE
WHEN CHET HURRIED TO THE garage where he kept his grandfather’s 1988 Toyota, the stars were beginning to peek out in the dark sky overhead. He thought he’d never use the old, beat-up Camry he received when his grandfather died the year before, but now he was thankful for a car his neighbor had never seen. If Pops happened to suspect he was being followed, he’d never guess it was Chet in the old car.
Chet climbed in the Camry, pulled it around to the side of the house hidden from his neighbor’s view, and waited. The beat-up car smelled of gasoline and brake fluid, but he didn’t care—as long as it ran.
Doubts about his plan crowded his mind when he remembered Brad’s words in the department debriefing that morning. “Don’t ever go into a dangerous situation without backup—no matter how good a cop you think you are.”
In the quiet solitude, those two sentences repeated over and over in his mind like a broken CD in a loop.
Is this a dangerous situation?
Maybe.
Maybe not.
Brad might be mad. But, if his neighbor’s behavior could be explained simply because he was idiosyncratic, there’d be no harm done. His buddies would have nothing to ridicule him about. However, if these periodic night runs were linked to some crime, especially the sheet murders, it would be worth the risk to find out.
When he had definite proof, then he’d let the department in on it.
Long into the sleepy morning hours, Chet’s eyelids drooped. Maybe he would close his eyes—just for a minute. The barking of a neighborhood dog snapped his head up straight again—suddenly, he was wide awake. He blinked and saw a tall shadow move across the yard next door and enter the old shed behind Pop’s house. Chet sat up tall in the seat—his hands were clammy—and listened. A motor growled as it came to life, and Pops slowly pulled his white truck out of the driveway.
Sweat rolled down Chet’s face and stung his eyes as he pulled his car into the road. A nagging uneasiness urged him to call Kent. He wouldn’t be at the station this early, but he could call his cell number—just to be safe. He reached to grab his cell phone, but it wasn’t in the holder. He’d left it beside his bed. The call would have to wait.
Chet watched the truck turn onto the next street over and compelled the temperamental Camry down the quiet street.
When Pops reached the lower part of the city and parked outside a run-down mom-and-pop store selling antiques, Chet turned off his lights and coasted to a stop on the corner several blocks away. A short, frizzy haired man rushed out of the building and joined Pops in the truck. Pops popped the clutch and the truck lurched away from the curb.
Chet cranked his car. At the same time, a slow-moving, delivery truck pulled out in front of him. Helplessly, Chet watched Pops make a quick left hand turn at the next light and struggled to keep his neighbor in sight. When the red light caught the truck in front of him, Chet felt disappointment course through his heart. He was going to lose them! Banging his hand on the steering wheel made him feel better, but it did nothing to stop Pops from disappearing down the side street. When the light turned green, the offending delivery truck ambled on down the street.
When Chet continued his left hand turn, Pops and the truck were nowhere in sight.
What rotten luck!
After searching the rows of plush condominiums in the area, Chet headed to the warehouses situated on the waterfront. Turning off his lights, he searched by moonlight—row after row. A couple of hours later, he finally spotted a white blur in the distance parked at the loading dock of a large warehouse. Chet pulled his car over to the side of the alley, and got out slowly. The smell of sulfur and dead fish was strong as he drew in a breath of uncertainty.
Brad was a patient man, but Chet knew patience wouldn’t stop the
TWENTY-THREE
WHEN CHET HURRIED TO THE garage where he kept his grandfather’s 1988 Toyota, the stars were beginning to peek out in the dark sky overhead. He thought he’d never use the old, beat-up Camry he received when his grandfather died the year before, but now he was thankful for a car his neighbor had never seen. If Pops happened to suspect he was being followed, he’d never guess it was Chet in the old car.
Chet climbed in the Camry, pulled it around to the side of the house hidden from his neighbor’s view, and waited. The beat-up car smelled of gasoline and brake fluid, but he didn’t care—as long as it ran.
Doubts about his plan crowded his mind when he remembered Brad’s words in the department debriefing that morning. “Don’t ever go into a dangerous situation without backup—no matter how good a cop you think you are.”
In the quiet solitude, those two sentences repeated over and over in his mind like a broken CD in a loop.
Is this a dangerous situation?
Maybe.
Maybe not.
Brad might be mad. But, if his neighbor’s behavior could be explained simply because he was idiosyncratic, there’d be no harm done. His buddies would have nothing to ridicule him about. However, if these periodic night runs were linked to some crime, especially the sheet murders, it would be worth the risk to find out.
When he had definite proof, then he’d let the department in on it.
Long into the sleepy morning hours, Chet’s eyelids drooped. Maybe he would close his eyes—just for a minute. The barking of a neighborhood dog snapped his head up straight again—suddenly, he was wide awake. He blinked and saw a tall shadow move across the yard next door and enter the old shed behind Pop’s house. Chet sat up tall in the seat—his hands were clammy—and listened. A motor growled as it came to life, and Pops slowly pulled his white truck out of the driveway.
Sweat rolled down Chet’s face and stung his eyes as he pulled his car into the road. A nagging uneasiness urged him to call Kent. He wouldn’t be at the station this early, but he could call his cell number—just to be safe. He reached to grab his cell phone, but it wasn’t in the holder. He’d left it beside his bed. The call would have to wait.
Chet watched the truck turn onto the next street over and compelled the temperamental Camry down the quiet street.
When Pops reached the lower part of the city and parked outside a run-down mom-and-pop store selling antiques, Chet turned off his lights and coasted to a stop on the corner several blocks away. A short, frizzy haired man rushed out of the building and joined Pops in the truck. Pops popped the clutch and the truck lurched away from the curb.
Chet cranked his car. At the same time, a slow-moving, delivery truck pulled out in front of him. Helplessly, Chet watched Pops make a quick left hand turn at the next light and struggled to keep his neighbor in sight. When the red light caught the truck in front of him, Chet felt disappointment course through his heart. He was going to lose them! Banging his hand on the steering wheel made him feel better, but it did nothing to stop Pops from disappearing down the side street. When the light turned green, the offending delivery truck ambled on down the street.
When Chet continued his left hand turn, Pops and the truck were nowhere in sight.
What rotten luck!
After searching the rows of plush condominiums in the area, Chet headed to the warehouses situated on the waterfront. Turning off his lights, he searched by moonlight—row after row. A couple of hours later, he finally spotted a white blur in the distance parked at the loading dock of a large warehouse. Chet pulled his car over to the side of the alley, and got out slowly. The smell of sulfur and dead fish was strong as he drew in a breath of uncertainty.
Brad was a patient man, but Chet knew patience wouldn’t stop the
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