Dance on Fire Read online

  ***

  Jane looked away before the first wave of vomiting struck her. It splattered hard atop the sidewalk, but Candace couldn’t hear that either, thankfully. She stood transfixed by the eyes seemingly staring back at her; the frozen open maw, screaming in silence.

   

   

  5:24 a.m.

   

  Barbara Lopez’ eyelids were closed tight; however, her eyes beneath darted to and fro like a worm that burrowed beneath the earth but could not decide in which direction to travel. Deep in REM sleep, she was looking at nothing and yet seeing much. She wore a white sundress and stood in a large open meadow. Thin, tall trees to her left looked like a small remote island surrounded by a sea of flowers that hid her feet and stretched as far as the eye could see. She surveyed their beautiful shades of pink, white, and yellow, lifted nearly two feet into the air on stalks of flowing green.

  She glanced up, reluctantly. Was she hearing something now as the cool breeze pushed everything, making the stalks dance and the flowers sway? A voice was speaking to her, calling out to her, but she could not make out any words. She felt soothed as if she could hear the calming voice of wisdom itself. There appeared to be someone standing in the shade of the trees ahead, not that the sun was very warm, though exquisitely brilliant and directly overhead in the cloudless blue sky. Was that who was calling? She began to walk towards the figure.

  Who the shaded figure was, she could not tell. At this point she could barely make out anything except that there definitely was a rather tall someone leaning against the trunk of a tree. Whoever it was had yet to see her approaching. If the person did know, then he or she was ignoring her, at least for the moment. Her initial thought was that it was a male, and as she grew ever nearer, that intuition proved accurate. It was definitely a “he” and he was watching the flowers at his feet, his hands linked behind him.

  She heard the voice once again, but this time more clearly than before. It was an old voice and clearly not coming from before her but from behind. She pirouetted in the midst of the flower sea. No one was there. With the sky so blue and the sun so bright, with nothing preventing her from seeing a mile in all directions besides the cluster of trees behind her, there was simply no way that anyone could be speaking without her being able to locate him. She turned back. The figure continued to disregard her presence there.

  “Nathaniel, Nathaniel!”

  For the first time, Barbara could understand what was being said only to find that she was not the one being called. Something else occurred to her as well. A first name repeated was the calling card of someone very wise indeed. She immediately looked up to the heavens. God did that. When He called anyone throughout the Bible that was how He did it.

  Since Barbara was not the one being called, she did not take it as a disappointment that she could not see the owner of the voice, nor His shadow. She looked back to the figure ahead. Nathaniel? It was an old name. These days everyone was Nathan; maybe even Nat. In any case, Barbara appeared not to be the only one that Nathaniel did not acknowledge.

  “Nathaniel, Nathaniel!”

  Again, the figure before her did not seem to hear. She stood her ground for a while, waiting to see what might happen. When nothing did, she began to grow frustrated. Why she did what she did then simply made the situation all the more curious.

  “Nathaniel!” Barbara yelled.

  The figure before her in the shade of the flowery meadow suddenly looked up and found her.

   

   

  5:29 a.m.

   

  Kingsburg Police Detective Michael Lopez opened his eyes gingerly to the pre-dawn light of his bedroom and yawned. Half-way through this, he stopped and jerked his head from the pillow. He looked up at the clock on the dark oak dresser across the room. He already knew what time it was.

  He had heard women speak of their biological clocks, how they ticked away unmercilessly, reminding them of their age and the little time that was left for realistic childbirth. He was sympathetic to this concept because he had one of his own. Unlike a woman's, however, which silently ticked off the time like some great internal stopwatch, making its unfortunate way to 00:00:00, his actually kicked to remind him of its presence. His was a frigging control freak, bent on driving him insane, ringing mere moments before the real alarm clock on the dresser just to see him leap from the bed and fly across the room to turn it off.

  Oh, they had tried living without the alarm, but that damned internal clock of his, no longer having a reason to wake him, didn’t. Everyone had been late that day.

  He and Barbara had also tried for a while living with the alarm clock near their bed, but neither had been able to keep themselves from falling into the trap of turning it off and falling back to sleep.

  The problem had nothing to do with scaring the children, particularly the twins, or with waking them up at all. The problem here was a case of ownership. With Barbara being a stay at home mom, naturally the arrangement centered upon him working and her predominately raising the kids. But that was after six-thirty, not before! He was the one who needed to be up early since being promoted to detective grade; the rest of the house was content getting up when they were used to getting up. If he woke up the kids, again particularly the twins, it was solely his responsibility and absolutely no concern of Barbara’s. At least that was the deal the way it had been reported to him.

  Realizing his fate, Michael tossed his bed sheet into the air and leaped for the alarm. Sometimes, as the saying goes, it is better to be lucky than to be good. This morning, however, Michael was too late.

  The alarm sprang to life as 5:29 became 5:30, just as his fingers made contact with the alarm button. He clicked it home in disgust and waited, holding his breath.

  Familiar with the game, Barbara woke but did not move a muscle. She didn't even blink. They both waited in the first light of the day like psychics in Pompeii just milliseconds before the eruption. There was nowhere to go, nothing to do but wait for the ground to shake and the peaceful blue sky to fill with heat and ash. At 5:32 Michael considered himself lucky.

  “You're a lucky duck, Michael,” Barbara whispered.

  “You don't have to tell me, babe,” Michael answered his wife with a childish grin, still listening for the slightest peep from down the hall as he approached her side of the bed. “What’d I win?”

  “You, my dear, have won the lifelong love and affection of your wife.”

  “Wait just a minute,” Michael kneeled and rested his elbows upon the bed. “Didn't I have that already?”

  “Theoretically.”

  “Theoretically? Sweetheart, I'm shocked!”

  “Michael, love,” Barbara purred as she stuck her finger out from beneath the covers and motioned him closer. He leaned forward. “If you want me to think of you in a day or two when I get off my period, I suggest you let me go back to sleep before the twins really do wake up!”

  “Well,” he smiled. “With a proposition like that, how can a guy refuse?”

  The telephone rang. Michael had it off the cradle before it finished the first ring.

  “Hello?” he answered.

  He glanced down at his wife with one ear tuned to the receiver and the other on the nursery. She was listening in that direction, too.

  “Detective,” the voice on the other end of the line began. “It’s Bishop.”

  Lainie Bishop was the graveyard dispatcher. She was barely out of college, and one of the sweetest girls he knew. This morning her voice was obviously troubled. Normally, as young and naïve as she ought to be, she was confident and polished. Right this minute it sounded to him as if these were uncharted waters.

  “Detective Jackson needs you downtown at 1448 Draper. It’s bad.”

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Kingsburg, one-six-eight,” an electronic-sounding voice in the background interrupted them.

  “Go ahead, one-six-eight,” Bishop quickly answered. “I’m sor
ry, Detective. It’s been a rough morning. Just call Jacks.” And then she hung up.

  It must be, he thought as he replaced the phone.

  “What’s wrong?” Barbara asked.

  “I don’t know,” he answered, still staring at the phone. “Bishop said Jacks wants me downtown.”

  Michael could still hear the buzzing sounds of a busy dispatch center ringing in his ear. And now he could hear the twins starting to cry. Both parents sighed, neither one blaming the other.

  Nineteen minutes later, Michael was fully dressed. Barbara was still in bed, though now sitting up and no longer alone. The twins were there; one teasing as if he might attempt his first crawl, the other wriggling about on her back.

  Barbara stretched and yawned as he entered the room. He waited for his window of opportunity—the moment when her arms were raised their farthest and her breasts were pushed together and almost coming out of her pretty peach nightgown. She could use a warm shower, he thought to himself but acted as if he hadn’t noticed. It was here that he started to make his move.

  “Don't even think about it, Detective!”

  Barbara suddenly opened her eyes and stuck her left hand out before his face, putting a halt to his impending advance. She was now the tiny, innocent field mouse in a silly cartoon, suddenly rolling onto her back and ripping out a hidden rifle with a scope on it, the word ACME printed on its side in bold black letters, and blowing away the hawk just as it extended its talons for her at the bottom of its dive.

  “Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart,” he lied. “I was just waiting for you to finish your stretch so I could give you a big hug.”

  “Yeah, right!” She slipped into their son's voice. “And monkeys might fly out of my butt!'”

  Michael dropped his head into his hands before looking up again. “I'm really worried about you, Barbara.”

  She laughed.

  “Have you been watching that 'Wade's World' with your son again?”

  “It's 'Wayne's World', you big dummy!”

  “Whatever.”

  “You're showing signs of your age.”

  “Who, me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  “Naw! The Lord and I made a deal...”

  “It's not the Lord who makes the deals, sweetie,” she giggled. “I think you got the wrong guy.”

  “Very funny!” Michael said, making a sarcastic face and nodding. “No, really, we made a deal. I stop saying the "F" word and He stops aging me.”

  “Oh, boy,” she laughed. “I'm surprised you don't have more gray hair in your head than you do, making a fool-wager like that!”

  “It wasn't a bet, dear.”

  “I know,” she said. “Because you'd lose!”

  “What do you mean?” He leaned back as if insulted.

  “It's your favorite word. It's right up there with the word “yes” when it comes out of a woman's mouth. The race is so close; it's a photo-finish!”

  Barbara leaned forward and grabbed her husband's hands, pulling him close before he could mount a comeback. She kissed him long and deep like Superman making Lois Lane forget his identity. When she was through with him, she pushed him away dramatically as if she were sending him off to work with a bang.

  Acting obedient, Michael turned around and began walking out of the room. He stopped at the doorway and looked back at her. “Sweetheart?”

  “Yes, Dear?”

  “Brush your teeth!”

  Before she could react to what he had said, Michael leaned down in a crouch and started to rock from side to side, waving his fists around in some dimwitted, “I got you” kind of celebration.

  Barbara silently waited for him to stop his childish dance and then raised both of her fists into the air and mockingly flipped him the bird using her non-middle fingers. Michael laughed at the sight and then turned and walked away.

  On his way out he peeked inside his eldest child’s bedroom. Ten year old Jerod was that rarest of child. If questioned, neither mother nor father would have been able to recollect the last time that their son needed to be awakened for anything. Even for vacations or day-trips to Dodger Stadium, Disneyland or Pismo Beach, he had always been the first one up. This morning was no exception.

  “'Morning, Son.”

  “’Morning, Dad.”

  Jerod was still in bed, but he had already thrown back his bedcovers and was just lying there, staring up at the ceiling with his hands behind his head. It was early yet, after all. He usually got up at six o’clock which gave him plenty of time to dress, eat breakfast and then head over to his buddy’s house down the street where they always met to play PlayStation 2 before Steven’s mother took them both to school. Steven Harris was the son of Judge Judith Harris, and he knew that Jerod liked to call her Judge Judy after the famous television judge. Whenever she heard him, the judge threatened him with contempt that would promptly begin at the stroke of midnight, August 15, 2016 on his eighteenth birthday. She didn’t let him have all of the fun, however. She liked to ask Jerod whatever came of the search for his mother like the Jerod on the television series, The Pretender. A show that he had never seen, but now knew all about thanks to her. She promised to equip him with all of the seasons on DVD.

  “I’m going to work, Kiddo, so you take it easy and have a good day, okay?”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  “Who’s got the trophy now?” he added with a wink.

  “Steven!” Jerod said without a moment’s hesitation, suddenly animated. “He had me by two scores! But in the fourth I got a pick and then forced a fumble on a sack to jump back in it!”

  “What happened?”

  “Extra point!”

  “Missed it?”

  “Missed it!”

  “How do you miss an extra point on a video game?” his dad asked incredulously.

  “Heck if I know! But if I had that weasel on a fantasy team, he’d be out! It was a chip shot!”

  A moment later Michael was walking toward the driveway to his unmarked dark gray Ford Crown Victoria—which might as well have been marked “Detective” in large block letters as inconspicuous as that was. He climbed inside and cranked on the ignition. Immediately, the sound of radio traffic overwhelmed the turning over of the large engine. Seemingly, one voice was jumping over another, as if that were possible. Lopez called his partner’s cell phone. It rang several times before his obviously agitated partner answered, “Jackson!”

  Mark Jackson had been Michael’s partner for as long as he could remember. He was more than a partner really, but perhaps the best friend that he had ever had. They shared not only their working hours together—whether during the day in the office or around town, or during the night on stakeouts—but they’d taken small vacations together and shared much of life’s great events: two weddings, and the births of Michael and Barbara’s children. Other than his family, Michael had never felt closer to another human being. Those who were old enough to remember the artist loved to refer to the both of them as Michael Jackson, playfully dropping the word “and” between the two names.

  “Jacks, it’s Mike. What the hell’s going on?”

  Michael could hear buzzing there, too.

  “Mike,” his partner said without hesitation or greeting, “we’ve got two dead cops!” And he did not wait for the information to sink in before continuing. “I need you here now! This is like the fall of Saigon down here! Rodriguez, watch where you set that! I want you and all of that equipment within the path of contamination. I catch anyone outside those limits, I’m gonna’ have their ass! Mike, are you comin’? I need you!”

  Without using his seat belt or checking his mirrors, Michael pulled out into the street and quickly accelerated. A cop in a film or television show might have taken the time to consider a great many things during these first unsettled moments. He might have already taken into account his character’s motivation; or perhaps made some last minute change in his head to the scripted dialogue before making his delivery. Unfortunately
for him, this wasn’t Hollywood; this was reality. In reality, this was Kingsburg, and in Kingsburg the only things that got killed were the occasional dog and a great many cats.

  “Mike, are you still there? Are you on the way?”

  “Jackson, I’m on my way.”

   

   

  5:59 a.m.

   

  In another part of town, another phone was disrupting the peace of someone’s morning. By the third ring her blue eyes sprung to life. The first thing that came into the mayor’s view was the bright red digital numbers on the fancy contraption on the nightstand before her. It was a dual phone and alarm clock with two alarm settings, which was no longer necessary in her house. Not since the divorce. It played CD’s and had both AM and FM radio capabilities with a fairly strong antennae. It seemingly could do anything. By the fifth ring, she wished that it could answer itself. Of course it could, but that was not what she had meant. By the sixth ring it dawned on her that her alarm was about to sound as well. As she reached over to interrupt that seventh ring, it did that very thing.

  “Peterson!” she answered, unable to disguise the agitation in her voice as she struggled to turn off the alarm at her bedside.

  “Ma’am,” said the apologetic voice on the other end of the line.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry for waking you…”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped, unintentionally. She quickly regained her composure, none too proud of having shown showing weakness. “Of course I’m awake. It’s Monday morning, for heaven’s sake. I’m always early rising to begin a week.”

  “Of course.”

  “Now, what do you need?” It was an easy question, a safe question. She still had no idea who she was speaking with. She covered the phone quickly while she yawned. That last glass of Berringer White Zinfandel was still with her this morning.

  “Your Honor, something terrible has happened.”

  “Go on.”

  “I came in early to put out some displays in the store window…”

  Councilman Johnson! She sighed with the realization. He was the only member in City Hall who owned a business.

  “…and when I looked out the window I realized nearly the entire block had been cordoned off.”

  Careful not to let him hear that she was still in bed, she sat up slowly and simply allowed him to continue. Of course, nothing was going to be able to prepare her for what she was about to hear.

  “I couldn’t see anything from where I stood except for the gray blankets. It looks like someone’s hanging their laundry out in the heart of town. The place is crawling with cops, both uniforms as well as plainclothes. One guy looked like he was wearing pajama bottoms! They’re not letting anyone anywhere near…”

  “David,” she interrupted loudly. “Did you say the police are hanging blankets on Main Street?”

  She was awake now, by God. And not only that, gone was any thought of pretense. Before her mind could wrap itself around what she was being told the thought of cash registers slamming shut began to sound in her ears. There were yet a few details to finalize, some very minor tasks to perform, but suddenly it sounded as though the Swedish Festival, her first one, might be in big trouble.

  “Just what the hell has happened?”

  “Madam Mayor,” the councilman said. “Two police officers were found murdered this morning on Draper Street.”

   

   

  6:42 a.m.

   

  Detective Michael Lopez brought his car to a halt at the intersection of Marion and Draper Streets behind what appeared to be every squad car that the city of Kingsburg owned. His first thought was that in all of the excitement he had mistakenly driven into the Kingsburg Police Department parking lot, or perhaps the back lot at Universal Studios on what should have been a closed set and certainly not the small town he had lived in since the time that he was five.

  The heart of Main Street was effectively shut down. Faded orange barricades and yellow CAUTION POLICE tape stretched across his view from the old city hall building on the north to the WestAmerica Bank to the south. Down the street, the scene was repeated from the Bank of America building to the former clothing store turned musical instrument store. It was a great rectangle that none were being allowed within and he was more than a little proud. Great care was being taken to preserve the integrity of the crime scene. In the great metropolitan cities in the country—Miami, New York, Chicago, San Francisco, Washington D.C., Seattle, and Los Angeles—this kind of police procedure was commonplace; however, this was Kingsburg. This was a hamlet compared with those great cities. So far, it seemed, his little town was getting it right. The trick, of course, especially now that he and his partner were being passed the baton, was for that trend to continue.

  Though it was still relatively early, onlookers were growing in large numbers outside the cordoned area. Obviously, the early morning jogging group had been first. Of that particular demographic, most now clutched coffee and donuts, this being infinitely more interesting than exercising. They had since been joined by the small business owners, who were much less excited by the developing scene since their bottom line depended upon cars and customers being able to drive and park in the now restricted area. Inside, uniforms were engaged in all sorts of activity from basic crime scene investigation to pedestrian control to just plain old standing a post. This morning, however, the word “uniforms” hardly seemed to apply. At first glance, there appeared to be few who had actually been afforded the time to put on a uniform due to the nature of the emergency.

  As he reached the caution tape and prepared to enter the largest and most important crime scene he had ever witnessed, his thought was: And I may need every one of you!

  “Mike,” a grim-faced sergeant in faded jeans and a dark blue t-shirt which read, POLICE, greeted him behind an old and tightly clenched jaw. Joe Chavez was his name. If Michael respected anyone on the force, it was him. He had always been a great friend and mentor, more than once going out of his way to take care of him, especially since Michael had made detective. Actually, he was more like the father Michael never had, his own having died when he had been very young. He respected him dearly.

  “I’ve never seen anything…” Joe’s voice cut out.

  Michael glanced at the scene laid out before him, allowing his trained mind to begin disseminating the rough data. Halfway down the block on the south side of the street, blankets had been hung from caution tape that stretched tightly between two trees, keeping what lied within from being seen by anyone on the outside. Michael’s partner was there, he noticed, already thick in it. By the look of him, Michael needed to hurry along and join him.

  Michael looked up into the sergeant’s face as the names of the dead worked their way inside him. Everybody knew who had been working the Graveyard shift last night. Kingsburg was a far cry from the big metropolis of Fresno where it might be nearly impossible to even have met everyone in the department. In Kingsburg, not only did you know everyone intimately, but you also knew who they knew intimately.

  Michael nodded at the sergeant and began to walk away. He heard Joe Chavez exclaim under his breath: “I wished to God that I’d never seen it.”

  “Lopez!” the chief’s voice came resounding from his right as he made his way to the heart of the scene. He recognized it immediately. He slowed his pace just a moment, allowing the man to catch up to him.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner, Chief.”

  “I’m just getting here myself,” he said. “What have you heard?”

  “Not much. Two dead. Browning and Mancuso.” He glanced up at his superior. “I can’t believe it.”

  The chief grimaced and looked into his eyes. “Yeah,” he said simply.

  When the two men joined Detective Mark Jackson, he was waiting for them. He was dressed in a gray sport coat, solid red tie, black slacks and shoes. He wore his curly black hair short and still sported the closely trim
med beard that he had grown during the winter. Jackson held out his hands to stop them momentarily. Glancing around him, he addressed the small group of police officers, firemen and the three members of the ambulance crew that had arrived some moments ago, all on their own. No one had thought to call anyone in a rescue capacity.

  “You men,” he began. “Harry, Carlos, you, too. Some of you guys don’t answer to me, but I would like your cooperation. We’re going back inside there, but I don’t want anything to happen while our attentions are divided. Fall back and maintain crowd control while we wait for everybody to arrive. We’ve got Fresno County Sheriff’s Crime Scene Investigation Unit on the way. More of our own are still getting here, and whoever the hell else needs to be here.” He held out his hands to motion them back. “Please.”

  “Philips, Guerra, Alaniz,” the chief took over. “You heard the man. I want containment here. Everything looks good so far. If we’re going to figure out what happened here and catch the sonofabitch, we need your heads in the game. Alright? Let’s go.”

  Immediately, the men fell back and went about their jobs. Even the E.M.T.’s quietly turned and started back closer to the ever increasing number of bystanders. Soon those numbers would include teenagers on their way to the high school. No doubt many of those wouldn’t even make it to school, and that would go unpunished today, perhaps even the entire week. Nobody in the Department had time for truancy pickups now.

  “Chief, Mike,” Mark Jackson said without looking at either man. “Prepare yourselves.”

  And with that he quickly walked over to the spot where the blankets overlapped one another, parted them with his right hand and entered. Michael paused, allowing the chief to enter first and noting that his experienced partner did not give propriety a second thought.

  “Jesus,” the chief said as Michael stepped through the blankets and nearly bumped into him.

  He put a hand out, catching the man’s shoulder, and quickly balanced himself so as not to knock him over. Michael had to sidestep the man before he could see what had given him pause.

  The first thing that he saw was Nick Mancuso’s mouth gaping open. Michael put a hand to his breast as he could feel the horror wash over him. Impossibly, there was very little blood anywhere. At first glance the spike appeared to be relatively blood-free, nor was there any visible pooling in the planter below.

  To the left was the rest of the police officer. Detective Jackson gave his chief room to kneel before the headless body. What remained was still hanging above with its great open wound facing north, the spine visible to any who cared to look for it. Its legs haphazardly trailed its torso. Both arms appeared to be broken. There was now a small blue tent covering the headless body, shielding the view from any potential news helicopters.

  “Browning’s back here,” Jackson told them. He stepped carefully to the right along the path of contamination and walked over to the body of the second police officer. “He got off easier.”

  Michael and the chief followed suit. Officer Larry Browning’s unbruised face appeared peaceful and serene, as if he were simply asleep. He lay on his right side with his back to them. It felt akin to standing over a deceased brother. In point of fact, both Mancuso and Browning were brothers to them all, or in the case of the chief—sons. As they hovered over what was clearly the worst crime scene in Kingsburg’s nearly one-hundred years, Michael—and undoubtedly the others with him—never bothered to take the time to either ponder the historical significance or mourn the fallen. There would be time enough later to mourn these men. For now, the only way to concentrate on the task at hand was to catalogue them as bodies, evidence, clues.

  “He hardly has a scratch on him,” the chief said, thinking aloud.

  “I’ve been waiting for Fresno County to get here before poking around him too much, but that’s been my conclusion as well. He’s as white as a sheet, so I can deduce great blood loss. I just don’t see where it went unless it is beneath him. I haven’t moved him.”

  In the distance, someone called out. “Chief O’Donnell?”

  “Yes!” the chief shouted back without looking up. There was no response. He finally turned, his voice growing loud with impatience. “What?”

  Still, no one answered.

  “Christ!” he muttered to himself, rising to his feet and moving quickly to the blanketed area. Michael’s gaze followed him. He stabbed the place where the blankets overlapped with his left hand and pulled one aside. “What?”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said one of the plainclothes officers, barely more than a cadet, really.

  “If I have to ask you one more time what the hell you want, I’m going to bust you down to washing police cars! Do you read me, damnit?”

  “Yes, sir,” came a terrified response.

  Clearly this kid didn’t wish to bother the chief anymore than the chief wanted to be bothered.

  “Good.” The chief moved to turn back only to be bothered again.

  “Sir, it’s the mayor. I stopped her from coming to see you, but she started threatening me, too.”

  The chief turned back, quickly glancing over the young officer’s shoulder until he spotted the Honorable Katherine Peterson. She had been selected the city’s first female mayor.

  Just six months ago.

  She was dressed in a tan pants suit. Her blonde hair was up in a knot behind her. She stood with her hands clutching police tape, looking as if she were giving him thirty seconds to invite her inside or she was coming in whether he liked it or not. He had so much to do, but knew instinctively that he would get to none of it done until he had granted her an audience.

  “Shit!” he muttered to himself, but not before he quickly turned back toward the blankets behind him so she would not be able to read his lips or note his reaction.

  “Yes, sir,” the young officer sarcastically agreed with his boss’s assessment.

  The chief glanced back to the man’s eyes and allowed a minor grin to reach his face. The poor boy had been caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place, having to choose who to tick off: the Department or the City. Nice choice.

  “It’s okay,” he nodded in a newfound respect for the officer. “Good job. Get back to your post. I’ll go see her over there.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, acknowledging the moment only with his eyes. He turned and headed back to the exact spot he had been standing before his world began to get politically hot.

  “Lopez, Jackson,” the chief called out, but did not wait to hear a response. “I gotta’ go see the mayor.

   

   

  6:45 a.m.

   

  Barbara Lopez hugged Jerod briefly and watched proudly from the dining room window as he made his way across the street toward the Harris’ house, which was on the corner. The twins were on the floor in the living room feebly attempting to roll over, not yet mastering the art of crawling. They were relatively quiet now, but that would not continue unless she fed them soon. Usually, she was able to get her shower in while Michael was still home, but that was obviously out of the window now. Today, she would have to adapt.

  At least she did not have to face the day without coffee. That, other than the fact that she loved Jerod dearly just because he was her son, had been today’s real reason behind her hug: he had made coffee. He had also offered to watch his brother and sister for his mother so that she could take her shower, but Barbara knew how much he loved to play video games with his best friend, Steven Harris, so she simply sent him on his way. But I’ll sure enjoy that coffee!

  Bless that angel!

  She bent over the nearest baby and scooped her up. “Come on, sweetheart,” she said soothingly. “Let’s go get some ’ummies.”

  It was their pet word for “yummies”; itself another pet word for food. It saw its first use ten years before with Jerod, along with a dozen or so other silly words. It had seen its reemergence this past summer when Michael and Barbara brought home twins.

   


   

  10:40 a.m.

   

  Barbara glanced up from her Bible to the forty-two inch widescreen Sony Grand Wega across the living room. She had been attempting to do her daily devotional, but found herself hopelessly unable to. It was the third local news brief this morning, and second this hour, and although the reporter did not seem to have anything fresh to report, the young anchorwoman just kept “going back out to him”. The picture on the screen was a shot of their little town, a town that she had known since she was eight years old, yet she could hardly recognize it. Were it not for the large blue lettering at the bottom of the television screen which read: Breaking news...Kingsburg, California, she might have surfed on by on her way toward something interesting on the Food Network or HGTV.

  And on top of that, she just could not shake the feeling that she was forgetting to do something, or perhaps neglecting some item of importance that deserved some thought.

  When the telephone rang, it startled her as if she were about to discover that she had been left a widow by the man she had sent off to fight in a foreign land. She knew her Michael was not one of the dead because she had caught a glimpse of him earlier this morning at the scene during the first bulletin; however, that revelation did little to curb the great feeling of dread that she’d begun to feel since hearing the news.

  It had never crossed her mind that it might be the school. She quickly got up from her chair at the dining room table and grabbed the handheld off of its charger.

  “Hello.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Lopez?” the voice on the other end of the line asked.

  Barbara thought the person sounded familiar, but could not place the older lady's nasally-sounding voice.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “This is Dorothy Elms from Reagan Elementary School.”

  “Oh. Hello, Mrs. Elms. What can I do for you?” She went back to her chair. Momentarily forgetting about the rehashed news coverage, she stared at the nearest wall and subconsciously pictured the woman on the other end of the line.

  Had Barbara been the mother of one of her son's friends instead of his mother, she probably would have immediately jumped off the handle at the notion of being called by the school; however, Jerod was a great kid and model student, so she took it calmly.

  “Well, you see it's kind of a funny thing...I mean, it's certainly not amusing. Heavens, no! It's horrible! Simply horrible! Especially with the poor dear thinking it was...”

  “Mrs. Elms, you've lost me,” Barbara interrupted. “What's this all about? Has something happened to Jerod?”

  “Forgive me, Mrs. Lopez.” Mrs. Elms took a deep breath and started again. “It seems that poor Jerod caught word of what happened to those police officers this morning and he, well, the poor dear thought his father might be one of them.”

  “Oh, God!” Barbara sighed, putting her hand to her head. “I never even considered Jerod finding out about what happened! Dear, Lord!” Her eyes dropped onto the New American Standard before her on the table. The words were a blur.

  “Now, Mrs. Lopez, I assure you we've tried everything we could think of short of calling you to make him believe that his father was not among the dead; however, we are having one whale of a time. I saw him myself during the live news coverage this morning, but Jerod still will not believe it. That is why I have called you. Principal Davis and Nurse Biekert hoped that you would be able to dispel any horrible thoughts that he might have to the contrary.”

  “Yes, thank you. May I speak to him?”

  “Indeed you may, Mrs. Lopez.” the woman answered. “He’s coming right now.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Oh, and Mrs. Lopez."

  “Yes?”

  “Jerod is a fine young boy.”

  “Oh, thank you...”

  “This news has just been so terrible for him,” the old woman added. “Poor dear probably never even considered that his father's job could be dangerous. Tragic. Tragic.”

  Barbara did not reply to the woman's final words as the telephone was handed over to her son. Inside, the principal’s words continued to reverberate. Perhaps none of us thought that.

  Her thoughts went out now to the girlfriends or wives of the two slain officers, and also to their families. They did not have the luxury to think of the what might be’s or the could be’s; they were living the real life nightmare of, Good morning, but someone very close to your heart is dead today. Sorry!

  Jerod was speaking into her right ear now but she did not yet decipher his words. A finger dallied between her lips while she put herself in her son’s place, imagining him staring up into her eyes and asking the painful question: Where’s Daddy? After all, weren't police officers just the cute keystone cops in children’s books that helped little boys and girls find their way home? Weren't they?

  They were when I was a girl, Jerod. Not anymore.

  “Mom?” Jerod said sharply, pulling her out of her daydream. His voice sounded so small today.

  “Hi, sweetie,” she said quickly, attempting to sound strong for him. She wasn't doing a very good job and she knew it. How would she have sounded if it really had been Michael? How would she have been strong for her son? Or for any of them, for that matter?

  “Dad's dead, huh, Mom? I knew it. They won’t tell me...”

  “No, sweetheart.”

  Barbara tried to catch the water and push it all back inside the hole in the dam before the whole thing gave and flooded the entire village. She had done a lousy job, both in trying to reassure Jerod that everything was alright, and also in the fact that she never had that little talk with her son like she had always meant to. Maybe all of them should have discussed this.

  “Two officers who worked last night while all of us were asleep were...” She paused. She hadn’t prepared what she might say.

  “They were what, mom? Murdered?” Jerod answered for his mother.

  Jerod sounded so young still, and yet his words were so mature all of a sudden.

  “Yes, Jerod. I’m afraid so. But neither one of the men was your dad, honey. I promise.”

  “Are you sure, Mom?”

  Inside, perhaps Jerod believed all along. Maybe he just needed to hear the person he most trusted in the whole wide world tell him that everything was alright with his Mom, Dad and the universe.

  “I'm sure, sweetie,” she told him. “I'm sure.”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  “Hey, Sweetie?” Barbara said. “Do Mom a favor and put Mrs. Elms back on the phone.”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Lopez.”

  “Mrs. Elms, I think Jerod's probably had a little too much excitement for one day, so I'm going to come and pick him up.”

  “That sounds fine, Mrs. Lopez. It is so lovely to see him smiling again.”

  “Thank you for calling, Mrs. Elms.”

   

   

  12:40 p.m.

   

  “Ready, Mike?” the coroner asked as he came walking briskly down the tiled corridor of the Fresno County Coroner’s Office.

  There was little sound of his footsteps striking the white flooring thanks to the cloth boots covering his shoes. The city of Kingsburg and her needs had drastically reduced his forty-five minute lunch to eleven minutes. He made no effort either to complain about it or to draw attention to his sacrifice as he swallowed the last bite of what appeared to Michael to be a hot pastrami sandwich.

  “As ready as I'll ever be,” he answered with a slight grimace as he watched in disbelief while the man only partially chewed his meal and forced it down in large gulps like a shark that feared larger sharks in the vicinity might take it from him.

  It had been many years since Michael’s last autopsy. Though he had been preparing himself during the last half hour for the sights and sounds and smells that he would be exposed to, he could in no way even think about food. Maybe not even for the rest of the day.

  The doctor stopped as he prepared to le
ad him down the remaining corridor to the autopsy lab. Michael stiffened.

  “Sorry,” he said, quickly wiping his hands on his lab coat.

  Without another word, the coroner motioned him along.

  Michael swallowed hard as he followed the coroner into the lab. He had hoped that he could be strong during the autopsy; however, after the incident with the sandwich, he had begun to doubt it. As the lab door closed behind him, his nostrils were immediately flooded with the blessed scent of hospital antiseptic. His stomach cramped ever so slightly, just enough for him to notice.

  Not now! Michael addressed his stomach under his breath. We haven't seen anything yet!

  He closed his eyes and swallowed again.

  Michael stood before the bodies of two men that he had numbered as his friends. Both were covered in drab green sheets. He knew good and well that there was a jagged gap between the sheet covering Mancuso and his neck, but from where he stood he could not see the damage, thankfully.

  To his relief, years of training began to kick in, providing his mind with other details to evaluate and reflect upon that were difficult to accept no matter how many times he went over them. It was back to another point that he and Jackson had discussed earlier in the day: they could not fathom how two outstanding veteran Peace Officers could have been butchered, seemingly without a fight.

  Neither man attempted to radio in during their attack, Michael reminded himself, so whatever happened, happened fast. The dispatcher last heard from Mancuso at 4:18 am. Neither man got off a round. Browning's weapon had been found in the crime scene near his body but scuffs on the gun indicated that it'd been taken from him and thrown clear. They had to have been taken by surprise, Lopez thought, because Browning was the quickest shot in the department.

  Michael knew Larry Browning well. During March qualifying, he had been the fourth best shot, but first in the secret quickest draw contest which had been held the night before.

  What could possibly have happened?

  “Ok, Detective,” Doctor Bettencourt announced as he reentered the lab, pulling Michael from his thoughts.

  Then, as if alone, he walked over to the nearest table, the one containing Mancuso’s body and head, and thoughtlessly yanked off the sheet.

  The coroner stepped on a small button next to his right foot, turning on the florescent light above the table as well as a microphone which hung near where he was standing. At his right, an aluminum tray was adorned with a collection of sparkling clean scalpels of various sizes as well as an assortment of other miscellaneous surgical tools. Michael reopened his eyes just in time to see the coroner reorganize his cutting tools.

  “Doctor Russell Bettencourt, May 5, 2008,” the man began. “The subject is Nicholas John Mancuso, police officer. Caucasian male. Let's see…” He glanced over at his clipboard which hung on the edge of the table on a tiny hook. “Two hundred and eight pounds, five ounces. Five feet tall from protruding spine to toe…”

  Detective Lopez' eyes blinked steadily during the initial moments of the autopsy, his way of trying to cope with his squeamishness. The first incision had yet to be made, but he was already sick. The question was not whether or not he would be able to make it until the end, but rather, how much longer he would be able to hang on.

  “...neck torn open. Carotid and jugular severed. Crushed vocal cords and trachea.” The Coroner felt down to the right shoulder. “Dislocated right shoulder…”

  It was not the sight of the body that did Michael in. Rather, it was who the body had been just hours before. It was not as if this were the first time that he’d seen the ugliest of human remains. He had worked many a car accident in his career, two suicides, one death by misadventure and one murder. The idea that this particular bit of human mutilation still wore the same shield as he, and the fact that both it and its owner now lay before him, well-lit and directly under his nose, aided to compound the problem.

  “Compound fracture of the right radius. Broken right wrist. Fingers missing on right hand; distal phalanges crushed on both fore and middle fingers, middle finger also crushed middle and probably proximal phalanges...”

  As Michael's eyes roved across the horror, forced to further download into memory inch by terrible inch, he became increasingly submerged, almost hypnotized by it.

  “Detective Lopez?”

  The coroner reached across the body on the table before him and waved his right hand across his field of vision. “Detective Lopez?”

  With a start, Michael swore, using what his wife had claimed just this morning was his favorite word. It seemed so long ago already. He shook it off with a sign while the coroner waited.

  “Jesus, Doc,” Michael warned in a voice just above that of a whisper. “Don't do that.”

  “Sorry, Lopez, but I thought you were going comatose on me there. Are you alright?”

  “Yeah,” he answered, wiping his brow absently.

  “I'm going to begin cutting now, Detective. Are you sure you want to stay?”

  Michael glanced down at the man he had known while more images downloaded. Images that he had yet to see, but already could vividly picture. He had seen enough.

  “To tell you the truth, Doc,” he began as he looked back at the coroner. “I don't think so. Just let me know what you come up with.”

  “Get in line,” he said with a wink. “I’ve already taken calls from your new mayor, my mayor, and missed the call from your chief while on the phone with my boss.” He stopped with a pregnant pause. “Not a problem.” Clearly, he felt the political heat. “As you can well imagine, I plan to take my time with this subject. It shouldn't take too long, however.” He glanced down at the body and then looked back at Michael with a look of anguish. “Much of my work's already been done for me.”

   

   

  2:35 p.m.

   

  After being spotted immediately thanks to Pelco Security cameras and buzzed in by the dayshift dispatcher, the chief of police yanked open the front door of the relatively new police station and acknowledged no one as he hurriedly went about his business. He had been chief now for sixteen years, well longer than the rookie new mayor, bless her pointed little head. The day’s events, however, had him feeling as if this were not the case. He had had opportunities to move on to bigger cities earlier in his career, and now, more than ever, he was glad that he had never done so.

  Typically, the biggest problem he had ever faced was unrest during the week when the Kingsburg Vikings met up with their arch-rival Selma Bears on the football field in the fall. There had been a string of churches vandalized during the previous year which proved frustrating for a time until the day that fateful tip had been called in. Yet, certainly nothing like what they had woken up to today.

  As he headed for his office it wasn’t to make some phone calls, or to address some piled up paperwork. Instead, it was to grab a moment’s peace while he did his level best to make sure that his tiny police department didn’t find itself overwhelmed. He loosened his tie and removed it completely as he walked, unbuttoning the first button on his light blue Van Heusen dress shirt. He was still wearing the sport coat, but not for much longer. Dispatcher Susan Reynolds had followed him and seemed to be saying something, but he quickly waved it off. He sighed as the door engaged the frame.

  “Tired?” the voice of the person seated behind his desk asked, interrupting his peace.

  His desk sat on the right side of the office, facing east. He knew the voice. He had already spoken with the woman once today. Something told him that the two of them were about to become very close for the foreseeable future, whether he liked it or not.

  “Your Honor,” he said simply, slowly turning around as if he had expected her all along.

  “You can drop that, ‘your honor’ crap right now, O’Donnell! Don’t you ever send me away again from a crime scene! I’m the mayor of this town. I don’t care who you voted for.”

  “I get the sense you’re angry,” the chie
f began. “Am I way off base with this?”

  Without looking her direction, he headed toward the row of chairs placed in front of the desk. It was typically where his guests would be seated, but he was too tired to argue why he had to take one of these instead of the more comfortable leather chair behind his desk. To his left, the south wall was adorned with a set of what most who visited the chief referred to as antique swords. They were US 1860 Calvary Sabers, actually, with fullered blades and leather spiraled grips. They had been in the family for four generations. The accompanying steel scabbards were mounted there, as well. The chief did not glance their way, but knew that they were there should he need them.

  The mayor remained seated behind the chief’s desk, her hands folded atop duty rosters for the upcoming week. However, those schedules were all blown up now.

  “Do you know what this could do to the Swedish Festival?” she said after a measured pause. Even she recognized what it would sound like.

  “Yes, Katherine,” he answered, before sitting down. He turned and faced her finally. “Of course I know what time of year this is. Do you think I’m an idiot? I have been doing this awhile, you know.” The mayor raised one hand in hope of interrupting him before he got any further, but he continued, oblivious to it. “I’ve been working the festival since I was a cadet. I was coming to the damn thing well before that. Hell! I used to carry a baritone in it with the frigging marching band!”

  “I get it!” The mayor stood now, her voice climbing as well. “But damnit, this is huge. We need to solve this thing and catch the bastards responsible before…”

  “We? Is it we now, Katherine?” Chief O’Donnell demanded to know, incredulously approaching his occupied desk. His voice was rising now, too.

  She slammed her hands on the desk, knocking everything there in disarray.

  “No,” she snapped. “But my phone has been ringing off the hook all morning. I haven’t been able to think since yesterday. I’ve got councilmen attached to my hip, business owners banging on my door because you’ve got half the city behind caution tape, and vendors calling from as far away as Denver wondering whether or not we might be thinking of canceling. This is the frigging centennial year!”

  “Yes, I know that, Your Honor,” he matched her tone for tone. “And I’m sorry. My day hasn’t been exactly tickles and giggles, either. I’ve got a police department that has rarely heard of a murder case, let alone worked one. Some of these guys haven’t seen a corpse since the Academy. I’ve got two detectives and no CSI’s to work it. I’ve got to rely on a host of others and hope to God that all of the different jurisdictions don’t ‘F’ it up!”

  The chief glanced behind him in the direction of the door. It was a solid door with a simple name plate, carrying his name and official title. He could visualize some of his braver employees hovering there, attempting to listen in on the conversation. It would not have been difficult up until now. He turned back to the woman behind his desk and lowered his voice.

  “And to top it all off, I’ve got you breathing down my back, making it that much harder to do exactly what you’re asking me to do, which is to identify and locate the outstanding suspects.”

  The mayor started to react, but he put out his hand.

  “Please, Your Honor,” he asked her. “Let me do my job. This department may be a bit green when it comes to murder cases, but we’ll get it done. The first thing you’re going to see is a much larger police presence, which, thanks to the festival, you were going to have anyway. It’ll just start a bit sooner.

  The mayor stared at the chief for a moment, then took her hands from his desk and stood. A flash of guilt passed through her eyes as she stared at the mess she’d made—discernible enough for him to notice it—but it was quickly gone. He waved it off. Things unsaid hovered between them; however, in the end, she simply walked slowly around his desk and headed toward the door.

  For his part, Chief O’Donnell wondered whether he might have said too much. Was it necessary to confess how difficult the situation was, or to paint it as so precarious? He moved behind his desk and began to reorganize. He fixed everything where he thought it might have been prior to her disturbing it, but even he wondered how important it was in light of the day’s events. He grabbed a few folders that might have been moved, but dropped them back down again.

  The mayor grabbed the doorknob and pulled open the door, but stopped and looked back. The chief glanced up to meet her gaze.

  “Alright,” she said simply and took her leave.

   

   

  4:12 p.m.

   

  The phone on the desk rang. Michael grabbed it quickly.

  “Kingsburg P.D., this is Detective Lopez.”

  “Mike,” a familiar voice spoke. “It’s Russell Bettencourt.”

  “Hey, Doc,” Michael replied. Jackson was at his desk across from him. He looked up immediately. This had to be the autopsy results that they were expecting. “What have you got?”

  “Well, I just completed both posts. I faxed a preliminary report to you because I know how important this is. I’m still awaiting some toxicology results, but no one expects anything to come of them. Mancuso was sick with Influenza, about five days worth I think. Other than some over the counter, that should be all we find there.”

  There was a strange pause.

  Michael waited a moment, not sure of what was happening. He glanced up from his notes that he had been taking. A fax was probably awaiting him down the hall, but it was an old habit to jot everything down. He glanced at his partner who opened his hands as if to receive something from him.

  “Well?” Jackson asked. Michael shook his head and frowned.

  “Doc, are you still there?”

  “Yes, Mike.” But that was all that was said.

  “Is something wrong that you’re not telling me? As you can expect, I don’t have a lot of time for games here.” His voice was not loud, but firm.

  “I appreciate that, Detective,” Doctor Bettencourt said, his voice growing impatient as well. Perhaps it was fatigue or stress. Michael didn’t know, and did not have time to guess. “Look,” the doctor continued, finally. “I called you because something’s bothering me, and I don’t really want to write it down. I’ve got a reputation to think about and I don’t need anything—”

  “Doc,” Michael interrupted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Will you just spill it already?”

  “There was not a drop of blood left in the bodies,” the doctor said at last.

  Michael recalled the crime scene and the pool of blood collected in the soil of the planter where the head adorned spike had been affixed. There had been very little blood loss from Officer Browning; just obvious broken bones and contusions. With that in mind, total blood loss concerning Browning did not seem plausible.

  “Doc, I don’t remember any great blood loss with Browning.”

  “There wasn’t.”

  “So how could that be?” Michael asked.

  “I saw the pictures,” Doctor Bettencourt continued, not hearing the detective. “We’ve got over one hundred, and not one of them shows any substantial blood at all. Yet, I’m telling you, there’s no blood left in this guy.”

  “Great!” Michael said. “The guy I need to fill in the blanks is going blank on me.”

  “Listen,” Doctor Bettencourt tried to continue.

  “Next you’re going to tell me that you found tiny bite marks on their necks!” Michael said aloud what he was thinking out of frustration. His partner stared at him transfixed.

  On the other end of the line: silence.

  “Doc?” Michael sighed, lowering his voice.

  “Yes?”

  “You haven’t answered me.”

  “I know that.”

  “Is that what you don’t want to put on the report? Bite marks? They had vampire bite marks on their necks?”

  “Mancuso didn’t.”

   

  8:36 p.m.


   

  The car glided methodically like a child sleepwalking onto Roosevelt Street. Michael pulled up alongside a curb. He sighed as he looked up to the house and turned off the car’s headlamps. The outside light above the front door and the driveway flood lights were on, highlighting the yard. Ever since his appointment to the rank of detective, coming home to outside lights was bad news. It meant that he had put in well over twelve hours. Those types of days had been extremely rare, but not completely unheard of. Today, he could feel it. He almost wished Barbara hadn't turned the lights on for him because it just made him feel that much worse.

  The detective eyed his dark surroundings through blurry tired lenses as he walked around the unmarked police car to the sidewalk, then up the cement path which led up to the house. He yawned three times between the Crown Victoria and his castle. Rubbing his eyes with his right hand, fingers in one eye and thumb in the other, he futilely attempted to bring life back into them for the five minutes he felt he could reasonably give his family before his systems shut down for the night. It was 69 degrees already, but he did not notice.

  Michael yawned one more time upon stepping up to the front door. Only by sheer force of habit was he able to get the key to go into the doorknob and open the door.

  “Hi, honey!” Barbara smiled warmly and genuinely as she rounded the corner of the hallway to greet her husband. Her smile faded. “Boy, you look awful!”

  “Thanks, I love you, too!” he moaned.

  She laughed and then embraced him. “I do love you. Come on in here and take a load off.”

  Michael followed his wife into the dining room and then into the living room where he headed immediately for his recliner. He groaned happily, eyes closed as he allowed himself to be swallowed up in the chair's comfort.

  “I've been waiting all day long for this!”

  “I bet you have, sweetie.” she said softly, sitting down in front of him on the arm of the couch which was just four feet from his recliner.

  “How are Robbie and Rebekah doing?” he asked just before a wide yawn swept over him.

  “Well, Robbie's been trying to sleep all day,” she began. “You know how he is.” Michael grinned. “But Rebekah kept waking him up. He wasn't a happy little camper at all.”

  “How 'bout Jer..?” He started to ask, but something caught his attention behind Barbara. Jerod was asleep on the couch. Barbara followed Michael’s gaze, turned and gave her sleeping son a look over. “Looks like it's past both our bedtimes, huh?” he smiled.

  “He was trying so hard to stay awake so he could see you.” Barbara turned back to Michael, “He didn't have a very good day today.”

  “He didn't?”

  “This morning at school, he found out what happened. He thought that one of the dead officers might be you.”

  “Oh, shit!” Michael sighed.

  “Yeah,” she agreed with the assessment. “The school had to finally call me because they couldn't get him to believe them that you were fine. I talked to him over the phone and assured him that what had happened occurred before you had even left the house this morning. After that, I just decided to pick him up and bring him home.”

  “Good.” Michael rose from his recliner and quietly walked over to his son.

  “We had a pretty good day together.”

  “Next time, come pick me up, too,” he whispered.

  Barbara smiled. “Are you going to take him to bed?”

  “Yeah, then I'm going to bed, too.”

  “You don't want any dinner?” she asked.

  “No, I haven't been able to eat since this afternoon.”

  Michael put his arms underneath his son and picked up both him and the blanket he was wrapped in and carried them down the hall to his son's bedroom. Barbara turned the light on ahead of them so all he had to do was get him into his bed. Once inside, Jerod began to stir.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Hi, Son,” Michael smiled. “How'ya doin'?”

  “A little tried.” he muttered.

  “Just a little?” Michael grinned as he tucked his son into his Dale Earnhardt Jr. sheets and bedspread. They were new. When Junior got his new number, Jerod got new bedding.

  Jerod smiled.

  “Jerod, did mom talk to you about what happened today?” he asked, sitting down across the 88’s which denoted Earnhardt’s car.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So you know that sometimes my job can get kinda' hairy, right?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Okay, good,” his father continued. “Now, what happened today was a terrible thing, but not something that happens all the time. Dad's been a police officer for a long time and nothing like this has ever come close to happening to me. If you're careful and smart, if you always follow the rules and let everybody know where you are and what you're doing at every moment, then nothing should ever happen to you. You see, what happened today was a case where....”

  “Michael?” Barbara was trying to get his attention now.

  “Huh?” He turned around.

  Barbara was wearing her black nightgown, the one that always seemed to do wonders for him. Of all the gifts he had given her over the years, this was the one that he had gotten the most mileage out of. It was doing things to him even now, even though he was too exhausted to act on them. He looked her over (he couldn't help it) once more before he realized what it was that she was doing. From the doorway, she pointed silently over his shoulder toward Jerod. He turned his head and glanced down at their son. He was fast asleep.

  Michael sighed and dropped his head. Smart kid. “He's got the right idea,” Michael said, rising as quietly as possible from the bed. He joined his beautiful wife at the doorway. Together they stole one last look at their son and then turned out the light.

  “We've got a wonderful family, Michael.” Barbara whispered as they walked hand in hand into their bedroom.

  “I know, sweetheart,” he whispered back, putting his arm around her waist and pulling her close. “I know.”