former cop, went into corporate security for a major pizza company chain. Draws a decent salary. Another guy I know is now a Justice of the Peace.”
“Good for them.”
“You gotta do something, man. Rummel wants you gone. He’s like a dog and you’re the fucking bone. At the moment, you have a choice as to how you walk out that door. In six months, you may not have that luxury.”
John gave him a hard look. “I wouldn’t call any of this a luxury.”
“Hey, man, I know you got a tough break—”
“I didn’t have a tough break,” he snapped. “For chrissake, just say it. Stop with the fucking euphemisms.”
Grimacing, Denny looked down at his hands. “I’m on your side.”
“You’re on whatever side is convenient. But I get it, Denny. I’ve been around long enough to know how it works.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.”
“Yeah, me, too.”
Rising, the other man started toward the door.
John leaned back in his chair and watched him go. When the door clicked shut, he opened his pencil drawer and pulled out the flask, the silver finish tarnished from use. The irony that it had been a gift from his wife never ceased to give him pause every time he took a drink.
Snagging his briefcase, he set it on his lap and snapped it open. He dug into the side pocket. Relief swept through him when his fingers closed around the prescription bottle. John hated what he’d become. A sick parody of the man he’d once been. A fucking junkie. Everything he despised. Weak. Dependent. Pathetic. He wanted to blame it on the doctors. After all, it was they who’d so eagerly prescribed. But two years ago, John had been a basket case. A man truly at the end of his rope. Flirting with thoughts of suicide. Going so far as to put the gun in his mouth. He’d tasted the gun oil and his own fear, felt the cold steel rattle against his teeth.
Popping the cap, he tapped out two Xanax and one Valium. He wasn’t supposed to take them together, but he’d experimented and discovered through trial and error a cocktail of pills that provided what he needed to get through the day.
He pulled out the framed photograph and blew off the paper dust and pencil shavings. His late wife, Nancy, and his two little girls, Donna and Kelly, smiled at him as if they didn’t have a care in the world. Looking at them never got any easier. He should have been able to protect them.
Propping the frame on his desk, he tossed the pills into his mouth and raised the flask. “Here’s to you, Nancy,” he whispered and washed them down with eighty-proof whiskey.
CHAPTER 8
I arrive at the station to find all six parking spaces taken, including mine. I’m tempted to ticket the driver, but luckily for them I have other priorities. A Crown Vic with all the trimmings tells me the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department has arrived on the scene. I need all the help I can get, but I don’t want to get into a pissing contest over jurisdiction because Sheriff Nathan Detrick has his mind set on winning reelection next fall.
I park next to a fire hydrant and start for the front door. The noise level inside rivals a high school cafeteria at lunchtime. At the dispatch station, Lois looks as frazzled as her overprocessed hair. Hovering over her is a middle-aged woman in a pink parka and big pearl earrings. I silently groan when, upon closer scrutiny, I realize the woman is Janine Fourman.
Janine is the president of the Painters Mill Ladies Club, owner of Carriage Stop Country Store on the traffic circle and the Tea and Candle Shop on Sixth Street. She’s a member of the town council, a founding member of the Historical Society, a professional busybody and instigator of all that is rumor.
Glock and a muscle-bound Holmes County Sheriff’s deputy glance up from their conversation. Glock gives me a covert wink, and I know he’s relayed the message I want to the deputy: Help us, but don’t try to steal the show.
The deputy gives me a
“Good for them.”
“You gotta do something, man. Rummel wants you gone. He’s like a dog and you’re the fucking bone. At the moment, you have a choice as to how you walk out that door. In six months, you may not have that luxury.”
John gave him a hard look. “I wouldn’t call any of this a luxury.”
“Hey, man, I know you got a tough break—”
“I didn’t have a tough break,” he snapped. “For chrissake, just say it. Stop with the fucking euphemisms.”
Grimacing, Denny looked down at his hands. “I’m on your side.”
“You’re on whatever side is convenient. But I get it, Denny. I’ve been around long enough to know how it works.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.”
“Yeah, me, too.”
Rising, the other man started toward the door.
John leaned back in his chair and watched him go. When the door clicked shut, he opened his pencil drawer and pulled out the flask, the silver finish tarnished from use. The irony that it had been a gift from his wife never ceased to give him pause every time he took a drink.
Snagging his briefcase, he set it on his lap and snapped it open. He dug into the side pocket. Relief swept through him when his fingers closed around the prescription bottle. John hated what he’d become. A sick parody of the man he’d once been. A fucking junkie. Everything he despised. Weak. Dependent. Pathetic. He wanted to blame it on the doctors. After all, it was they who’d so eagerly prescribed. But two years ago, John had been a basket case. A man truly at the end of his rope. Flirting with thoughts of suicide. Going so far as to put the gun in his mouth. He’d tasted the gun oil and his own fear, felt the cold steel rattle against his teeth.
Popping the cap, he tapped out two Xanax and one Valium. He wasn’t supposed to take them together, but he’d experimented and discovered through trial and error a cocktail of pills that provided what he needed to get through the day.
He pulled out the framed photograph and blew off the paper dust and pencil shavings. His late wife, Nancy, and his two little girls, Donna and Kelly, smiled at him as if they didn’t have a care in the world. Looking at them never got any easier. He should have been able to protect them.
Propping the frame on his desk, he tossed the pills into his mouth and raised the flask. “Here’s to you, Nancy,” he whispered and washed them down with eighty-proof whiskey.
CHAPTER 8
I arrive at the station to find all six parking spaces taken, including mine. I’m tempted to ticket the driver, but luckily for them I have other priorities. A Crown Vic with all the trimmings tells me the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department has arrived on the scene. I need all the help I can get, but I don’t want to get into a pissing contest over jurisdiction because Sheriff Nathan Detrick has his mind set on winning reelection next fall.
I park next to a fire hydrant and start for the front door. The noise level inside rivals a high school cafeteria at lunchtime. At the dispatch station, Lois looks as frazzled as her overprocessed hair. Hovering over her is a middle-aged woman in a pink parka and big pearl earrings. I silently groan when, upon closer scrutiny, I realize the woman is Janine Fourman.
Janine is the president of the Painters Mill Ladies Club, owner of Carriage Stop Country Store on the traffic circle and the Tea and Candle Shop on Sixth Street. She’s a member of the town council, a founding member of the Historical Society, a professional busybody and instigator of all that is rumor.
Glock and a muscle-bound Holmes County Sheriff’s deputy glance up from their conversation. Glock gives me a covert wink, and I know he’s relayed the message I want to the deputy: Help us, but don’t try to steal the show.
The deputy gives me a
Similar Books
