Rage: The Reckoning Page 8

  Mark managed to get up on his hands and knees, and crawled over to him. There were aluminum railings running along both sides of the platform and when he reached Kyle, he wrapped his leg around one of the supports.

  “You toke?” Kyle asked, lighting the joint and taking a few quick drags to get it going.

  Mark didn’t really care for pot. Some of the kids from the conservatory were chronic users and usually looked stoned whether they had smoked any recently or not and with a cop for a father, Mark had to be especially careful.

  Or did he?

  The possibility of his father finding out he had been smoking pot on his first day in town might actually be a good thing. Since he hadn’t been a user in the city, it would actually strengthen his case for leaving Ratcliff.

  “Sure,” Mark said, forcing himself to focus on the thick concrete in front of him rather than the open air of the massive room they were sitting in. “Why not?”

  The pair sat on the tower, sharing the joint as the diminishing sun beamed through the thick glass cubes that walled one side of the room. When the joint was finished, Kyle took two cigarettes out and lit them. Mark had never taken anymore than the odd drag off of a cigarette but again he thought to himself, ‘When in Rome.’

  “So are you going to tell me who that was?” Mark asked, anxious to know more about the boy who had saved him from a beating.

  “Taylor Harrington,” Kyle replied serenely, “He’s a bad ass.”

  “Do you know him?” Mark pressured.

  “Not really. He’s kind of a loner. His dad is super rich so he doesn’t mix with the rest of us poor white folk. I’m actually kind of surprised that he stepped in the way he did, he’s kind of funny that way. But, I guess I should probably tell you, after what you said to Randy, he’s going to be coming for you again.”

  Mark could feel nothing (aside from the dull throbbing in his face) but gratitude. He had never been in an actual fistfight before. Technically, he supposed, he hadn’t been in one today either as a fight requires give and take and all he had done was get his ass kicked in front of half the school. It hadn’t been as bad as he had imagined it would be. A few of his teeth felt loose and it hurt a little when he moved his eyes but when all was said and done, he’d live to fight another day.

  They had just finished their smokes and sent the butts off of the tower into the pool of glass below when they heard engines approaching.

  “What’s that?” Mark asked, anxiously. “We’re not going to get arrested for trespassing or anything, are we?”

  They made their way back down to the pool deck and Kyle jogged over to the wall of glass cubes and peeked out through a spot where a piece was missing. From what Mark could hear, there seemed to be at least two vehicles, maybe more. A few minutes later, Kyle backed away from the window, giving Mark a look that was cause for concern.

  “Who’s there?” Mark whispered.

  Kyle rolled his eyes. “Guess.”

  Seven

  John Stevens managed to stir up quite a shit storm on his first day; the arrest of Briar Boyd was news all over town within hours. When they brought him into the station, Doug Green took off one of the cuffs so that they could print him and Boyd went off. It took four officers and a healthy shot of pepper spray to subdue him and later when they put Boyd through the intake process, he started screaming bloody murder. As it turned out, there was a good reason for it. Not only did he have three outstanding warrants, all for criminal offenses, he also had three separate bags of crystal-meth, each weighing three and a half grams (known as an eight-ball) tucked into one of his boots.

  The phone was ringing non-stop with congratulations as the news circulated through town and even the mayor called to thank the pair for a job well done. Apparently, a great number of people were breathing collective sighs of relief now that Briar Boyd (or B.B.) was finally going where he belonged. But John couldn’t help but compare the charges with what he’d experienced in similar cases. Realistically, the Crown would probably toss the drunken disorderly and weapons charges, and focus on the drugs. At best, Boyd might be sentenced to two or three years and be out in a year and a half. His main residence was smack dab in Ratcliff where he lived in their family home with his older brother and nephew. Where did they think he was going to go when he got out?

  Pete Andrews was protesting the arrest almost as vehemently as Boyd himself was. John and Doug were writing out their statements detailing what had occurred in the bar that afternoon and could hear the young cop through McLeary’s closed office door. From what John could pick up from their conversation, Pete Andrews was doing more than trying to get an old high-school buddy out of a jam. McLeary was speaking much softer than Pete was, but from what John could make of his tone, Andrews was selling horseshit and McLeary wasn’t buying any.

  It was already six-thirty, their shift having ended nearly two hours before, but he and Doug still had sit down with the captain to discuss the incident. Every twenty minutes or so, John flipped open his cell and called Mark and each time he got an automated message saying that the mailbox was full and to try again later. He tried the house number and got no answer there either. His mind was running through all the possible scenarios; maybe he's outside? Maybe he's busy unpacking or hefting the remaining boxes out to the garage?

  Maybe when you dropped him off this morning he turned around and took a cab back to the city?

  Nothing would have surprised him, but he doubted Mark would do that, at least, not without leaving a note or something which could very well be pinned to the front door waiting for John to come home and read it. Either way, he wasn't going to be able to deal with it from here.

  Captain McLeary's door swung open and Pete Andrews stormed out of the office with his face flushed red. "Green!" he bellowed from inside. "Get your lanky ass in here, I'd like to go home sometime today."

  "Here we go," Doug whispered as he rose from his desk.

  "Knock em dead slugger." John mused.

  He was no stranger to having his ass chewed by the brass. Hell, he and Jimmy Hackerman had practically made a science of it. But in this case, he felt McLeary should be congratulating them on their results rather than questioning their methods. Briar Boyd was bad news and the ringing phones were proof of that, yet, nobody had done anything about him until John rolled into town. And over a simple glass of beer, he was now up on criminal charges for drug possession. The fact of the matter was that, sometimes, good police work was achieved by unorthodox means. The entire country could be looking for a wanted criminal with his face plastered all over the news and, in the end, a patrolman stops him for a burnt out taillight or something.

  If you’re ever in the seventh circle of hell, ask Ted Bundy.

  John couldn't help but smile. ‘B.B.’ was in for a nice vacation. He finished typing up his report while McLeary’s voice boomed from his office, and when he looked up from his desk he saw Pete Andrews glaring at him from across the room. The main floor of the station was empty except for the two of them, so he took the opportunity to get the confrontation over with.

  "So this guy, Boyd," John said, pausing to clear his throat. "He's a friend of yours?"

  "You could say that," Andrews said bitterly, averting his eyes.

  "I did say that,” John said calmly. “What do you say?"

  That was the last push Andrews needed. He stood up from his desk angrily and charged over to him, his hands on his hips as if he were reprimanding a group of unruly teenagers. “We know all about you, Stevens."

  "Is that so?" John said, without looking up.

  "We know why you're here, why you're back in uniform."

  "I'll ask again,” John said gently. “Boyd is a friend of yours?" Andrews opened his mouth to reply and stopped himself. "See what I'm saying?” John continued, “You're a law enforcement officer, sworn to uphold the law, to serve and protect. What are you doing associating with a guy like that?"

  The younger cop seemed to have lost his steam. No matter
how he tried, there was nothing he could say that would explain his association with a wanted fugitive. It made John wonder what else Pete Andrews was up to. In John’s personal experience, sometimes, young people abused the power and prestige that came with the badge and the gun. Almost half the cops he had ever met fell into this category. Not that they were BAD cops, but the enthusiasm and dedication they had initially brought with them quickly diminished until they became nothing more than a body and a uniform. They refused overtime, began isolating themselves from the community they were supposed to be safeguarding and became more concerned about their two-week vacation than the fifty weeks surrounding it.

  Pete Andrews fell into this category. He wore his black leather gloves and Kevlar in the station house, and strutted around with his thumbs locked into his belt. He looked good in uniform, John admitted to himself. He was probably the kind of cop you could stand out on any street corner and let him direct traffic. But he was the kind of guy that would have been better suited for the military rather than law enforcement because deep down, he couldn't wait to shoot somebody.

  “Do you know why the Captain paired you up with Doug Green?” he said, angrily. “Because nobody else would work with you if our lives depended on it.”

  This was the moment John had been dreading since he accepted the position, leave it to an asshole like Pete Andrews to get the ball rolling. But he’d be damned if after today's events he would take this sitting down. Drawing a deep breath, John removed his glasses and set them down on the desk. He noticed his hand was shaking slightly and he tried to control it as he rose from his swivel chair and stepped up to face Andrews.

  "You have something to say?" John asked, his eyes locking on the younger cop's. "Say it."

  "We know all about you," he repeated, a concerned look flashing across his face for a moment. "You got two people killed, one of them your own partner, with your own gun." A self satisfied smirk spread across his lips as he declared; "That's what you're doing up here, and that's why you're back in uniform. You’re a joke. So don’t think for one second that me or any of the other guys are impressed with any of your bullshit."

  John felt hot rage well up inside of him. He wanted to grab the little shit by the neck and choke him until he turned black, but he could tell that was exactly what Pete Andrews wanted him to do. Then, everything would return to normal, he’d be ‘cock of the walk’ again. John couldn’t help but wonder how much Pete Andrews could accomplish in his career if he would just apply himself in some other direction other than worrying about how he looked in the mirror.

  "Let's get something straight," John said as calmly as he could. "I'm only here because I want to be here. I was on the job while you and your pal Briar Boyd were still popping pimples and snapping towels after gym class. You may very well be a good cop one day, officer Andrews, but it’ll never happen unless you pull your head out of your ass and open your eyes. Take a look around you!” John said, pointedly. “I’ve been here one whole day and I already found a meth dealer with three outstanding warrants on him. Who knows how many more I’m going to find? My question to you, Pete, is; how many more guys am I going to arrest that turn out to be friends of yours?”

  Pete Andrews flinched suddenly and then looked past John to Captain McLeary and Doug Green standing nearby, watching the drama unfold. Doug was stifling a smile, covering his mouth with his hand to keep from laughing. McLeary, on the other hand, did not look pleased. He motioned for John to join him in his office, and Doug took that as his cue to leave. Pete, on the other hand, lingered behind, waiting to hear McLeary chew him out.

  "You like to shake things up a bit, don't you?" McLeary said, closing the door to his office behind them. “When we spoke last month," he said, easing his weight into the oversized chair behind his desk, "I thought that you and I agreed that the best thing for everyone would be for you to take some time to ease into the way things are done around here?"

  John was still standing because he could tell this wasn't going to be a friendly chat between colleagues, this was a good old fashioned barn burning, old as time itself. And following the chain of command, shit always flowed downhill. "If this is about Briar Boyd, I can explain."

  McLeary snatched one of the pencils out of the jar on his desk and waved his hand like he was shooing away a bad odor. "I could give a rats' ass and a tiddly fuck about Briar Boyd. Far as I’m concerned, it’s about goddamned time. What I'm concerned about is your attitude."

  "My attitude?" John said, taken aback by the remark.

  "After you put in for this job and I talked to your CO, I thought I made it clear that this is my house. I didn't even have to look at your application if I didn't want to. Could have refused on principal alone. You follow?"

  "Yes, sir," John replied, looking straight ahead at the blind covered windows behind McLeary's desk.

  “Now, Pete Andrews might not have your record or experience, but he’s a fine cop. I’d trust him to watch my back just the same or more than anybody I got, you follow?”

  “Yes sir,” John said as subserviently as he could manage.

  "That said,” he continued. “I've seen your record and there's no arguing that you're a damned fine cop too, and we’re lucky to have you. But what you have to understand," McLeary went on, "Is that, this is a tight knit group. And the men and women you work with aren't going to change their way of doing things, you're going to change yours." McLeary was leaning forward now, accentuating his thoughts by pointing up at John. Then he went quiet for a minute, letting his words reverberate through the silent station house. When he spoke again, he had noticeably cooled down.

  "Now you can sit."

  John eased himself onto one of the two chairs opposite McLeary's desk. Unaccustomed to working past 5 o'clock on a weekday, the captain looked tired. John knew all too well that he hadn't exactly made his transition a quiet one. Although he had given McLeary a solid bust, picking up a wanted criminal that had been evading the authorities for months, but he had also handed him a sizeable headache. How many citizens would call him in the following days? How many times and to how many people would he have to repeat himself?

  Why?

  Why weren't we told that we had such a villain in our midsts?

  Why did it take so long to pick him up?

  Why haven't we heard of this cop that made the arrest? Which would lead to the question; Why did it take some city cop, on his first day no less, to make the bust?

  John had to admit, he hadn't given any consideration to how McLeary would answer any of those questions before throwing Briar Boyd against the bar that afternoon. Theoretically he could have, just as easily, told Doug to watch their suspect while he ran Boyd's name through the computer in the patrol car, which would have allowed him time to see that their subject was wanted, and to call in for backup on the radio. Five minutes, ten at the most, Pete Andrews would have been on scene, as could have one or two other units. Captain McLeary would have been informed, and they could have all shared in the glory. Instead, John had taken it all for himself.

  "How's the house?” McLeary sighed, turning in his chair and hefting his feet onto the open bottom desk drawer. “You and your boy settling in alright?"

  "Too soon to tell," John chuckled, relaxing slightly. "The house is . . . "

  McLeary nodded sympathetically. "Yep. Someone musta convinced those two that you get to take it with you when you go."

  "You can say that again," John said, shaking his head a little. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do with it all."

  "Yard sale?"

  "I’d love to, some of the stuff is probably worth something. But, can I do that?"

  McLeary scratched his chin thoughtfully. "I can make a couple of calls, just to make sure.” Then, he nodded as if he had made up his own mind. “Far I as I know, they gave the kids ample notice. All they were interested in was the proceeds from the sale of the house. By law, anything left behind becomes the new owner’s property. Speaking of the new owne
r and his son, we're both past quittin time."

  John and McLeary walked to their cars together. It was already getting dark outside, a sure sign that winter was on its way, and the decorative streetlights had blinked to life casting an orange glow on the boulevards. John couldn't believe how quiet the town was in comparison to the city. Aside from a couple of dogs talking to each other across the night air, there was no evidence of life to be spoken of. Strangely, the awful silence made John feel uneasy. Such stillness was often a prelude to mayhem. He tried to put the thought from his mind, making the short trip home with both front windows rolled down so he could enjoy the fresh air. But as he turned the corner onto Elm Street his heart sank.

  The house was pitch black.

  Half a dozen perfectly plausible explanations flashed through John's mind. Maybe his son, while attempting to make himself a meal, had inadvertently blown a couple of crucial fuses in the old house's wiring. Or, maybe after a long and trying first day at a new school, his son had come home and crashed out on the couch in front of the television as he often did after a rough day. But John had dismissed them all before he had even brought the car to a stop. He knew in the way that only a loving parent can know; his son had not come home from school at all.

  Eight

  It was just after 11pm when Paul Dushku tossed his backpack onto the back seat of his late model Honda and climbed into the driver's seat, wincing as he eased himself onto the soft leather. Ironically, the pain he was in was the very reason that he was able to own such a nice ride at his age. It was also going to get him out of his parent's house and set him up in the nice one bedroom apartment over Johnston's Hardware store that he had found advertised in the town paper. At only seventeen, he had a good paying job, complete with benefits, and he was going to have his own place, things that none of the other kids his age could hope for.

  Who cared if those same people knew where Paul’s money came from? After all, it wasn't like his sexuality was a secret. He didn't consider himself a total flamer (though his former classmates might say otherwise) but his mannerisms and overtones of femininity were a dead giveaway to anyone who spent longer than a few minutes with him. He liked men.