Doc (6 page)

Caleb slowed as he cruised past Maria’s bar. The sun had set and the temperature had dropped fairly quickly. It was also Monday, so he wasn’t expecting a large crowd. No one lingered in the parking lot, probably owing to the chill. He scanned it a second time just to be sure. He wouldn’t say that he was actually looking for anyone in particular, especially not a five-foot-five brunette with a killer right hook. But if he happened to run into anyone matching that description, he wouldn’t exactly complain. He’d also take the opportunity to find out what she was doing in his town. But she wasn’t loitering out front and unless he actually got a call from Maria, Caleb didn’t have any good reason to abandon the cruiser to take a quick peek inside the building. The job came first, personal curiosity a close second.

He turned the wheel and headed up Palmer Ave, toward downtown. His patrol route was mostly the south side of town, but it crept up right to the edge of Main Street and if he took a spin around that area, then he had an excuse to swing by Maria’s again on his way back through. He only made it as far as Davis Drive before his radio crackled to life. He took his foot off the gas for a moment as he realized the call was another Domestic. He paused, hands tightening a bit on the steering wheel, just waiting for an address so he could point the cruiser in the right direction.

His foot slipped off the gas entirely, though, when he heard the dispatcher’s voice coming through the speaker. He recognized the address, or thought he did, but that couldn’t be right. He snatched the mike off the cradle and pressed the button. “Dispatch, repeat the 20,” he demanded but turned the wheel and took the next cross street, just in case. The dispatcher repeated the source of the call. Caleb shook his head, unable to understand it, but didn’t want to waste valuable time questioning it. He slammed the mike back down on the cradle, flipped on the lights and sirens, and hit the gas hard. The cruiser rocketed forward and he spun the wheel to keep control of the car.

He flew past Maria’s bar, taking a hard left at the stoplight. He passed a car that wasn’t slowing down enough and nearly collided head on with a
pickup truck coming straight at him. He avoided the head-on collision by yanking the wheel back to the right and cutting off the Camry behind him. He turned onto the now-familiar street and pulled up against the curb, squealing the brakes. He threw the cruiser into park and jumped out the door. The car was still rocking back and forth as he exited.

The
rookie was on-scene again, standing on the front porch with another, older, man in uniform. Caleb recognized him, but couldn’t recall his name. From the looks of it, things had already spiraled out of control. With one hand the rookie was holding the screen door partially open, but wouldn’t cross the threshold. With his other hand he was gesturing wildly to the man next to him, who looked to be radioing for more backup.

For one brief yet horrifying moment, Caleb thought perhaps they were all too late. Chilling images of limp bodies and faces plastered with blood-matted hair swam in his vision, but
he shook them off as he ran across the lawn. As he neared the house, he heard the impossible sound of the asshole who lived here shouting from inside. But that couldn’t be right, because the asshole was cooling his heels in lockup and there was no way he’d scraped together enough cash to bail out.

Caleb mounted the steps as the
rookie turned to face him. A look of surprise registered on the younger man’s face as recognition set in.

“You shouldn’t be here,” the
rookie told him.

Caleb ignored him and reached for the door.

“You can’t go in there!”

The
rookie tried to push the edge of the door out of Caleb’s grasp. “He’s got a knife. He’s bashed up the place,” the younger man informed him breathlessly as he jerked his head to the second uniform. “We’re calling HRT and we’re supposed to—”

“Fuck Hostage Rescue,” Caleb snapped and grabbed the door firmly. He chanced a look inside and what he saw confirmed the
rookie’s report. Furniture was overturned. Stuffing from the couch was scattered all over the floor, the first victim of the knife the asshole had in his grip. At least Caleb hoped so.

Moira was a few feet away, her back pressed against the living room wall. The kid was nowhere in sight.

“They could be dead before Hostage Rescue even rolls out,” Caleb told the rookie in a hushed tone. He yanked on the door, opening it wide.

“You can’t
—” the rookie tried to argue, but Caleb disappeared inside.

The
asshole’s gaze barely tracked Caleb’s entrance as he moved farther into the living room. Judging by the way he swayed on his feet, he was drunk or high or both.

Caleb glanced around the living room. The kid wasn’t here. His door in the adjacent hallway was closed. Caleb hoped he was cowering under his bed.

“ ‘S you,” the asshole slurred, glaring at him. “Look, Moira. It’s your boyfriend. The one you were fawning all over. ‘Yes, Officer,’ ” he said mockingly, “ ‘come in, Officer. Let me get you a glass of water, Officer. Oh and here’s Mike’s one-hitter over here on the table and get a closer look at my lip, also courtesy of Mike for fucking nagging him so goddamn much!’ ”

Caleb glanced at Moira, who had already retreated mentally from the situation, as he suspected she’d done a thousand times before. Caleb noticed that while said lip was healing, her left eye was a deep purple and nearly swollen shut. She didn’t appear to have any other injuries. The knife looked clean and Caleb supposed that was a good sign, under the circumstances.

“Where’s the boy?” Caleb asked.

“Fuck you! And you,” he snarled, jabbing the blade in his direction
. “You got a big mouth, too. Telling me I’m not a fucking man. Bullshit I ain’t! Go to work, come home, just want some fucking peace!” He turned his gaze to Moira, then took a step toward her.

“That’s close enough, Mike,” Caleb warned, silently unsnapping his holster. Mike ignored him and took
another step.

“That’s all I want!” Mike shouted at her. Not so much to ask for!” Mike turned and looked at Caleb with red-rimmed eyes. “You married?”

Caleb’s hand hovered over the grip of his gun. Mike was now within striking distance of his battered wife, who was in no shape to move to safety even if Caleb ordered her to. “No,” Caleb replied quietly. “I’m not married.”

Mike grunted. “Then you don’t know. You don’t know… how it all gets like this. How you come home and you just want some peace. But it all goes to shit. It all turns out just like this.”

The fingers curled around the knife’s handle twitched as Mike glared at his wife.

“I know,” Caleb said, trying to get his attention back

“Bullshit you do,” Mike snapped, never taking his eyes off Moira.

“I
do
know,” Caleb insisted. “Trust me, I do. Why do you think I’m not married?”

Mike laughed, startling Moira out of her daze. The sound must have confounded the boy, too, because the bedroom door at the edge of the hallway began to creak open.

“Mama?”

Mike spun around, zeroing in on the cracked door.
“I told you to stay in that room!”

If Caleb had tried, every day starting today until the day he lay dying, he could never have adequately explained how he
knew
—how he’d
seen
the change in the man’s eyes—how he’d
recognized
the moment when the enraged man’s threats were no longer hot air but promises, promises that would be kept, now, in that moment. Some things you just
understood
; some things you just
remembered
.

It took just under one full second (Caleb knew because he’d timed it at the range) for his Glock to clear his holster. It took even less time than that to squeeze the trigger.

Izzy gripped the edge of the sink as she fanned her hair out over her shoulders. She swiped at her eyes, smudging her makeup as best she could and tucked the hair tie into her jeans pocket. Prepared for the inevitable, she was still surprised when she was grabbed from behind, spun around, and shoved up against the bathroom door. A pair of menacing, black eyes pinned her just as firmly as the hands around her upper arms.

Izzy’s instinct was to fight, but it was the wrong approach. She pushed down the urge to bring her knee up and slam it into his groin. Instead she whimpered and pretended to be afraid. She didn’t have to fake it much, since the man was huge and towering over her.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded. His eyes were red-rimmed and he smelled like a combination of weed and cheap tequila. His jaw flexed and dark hair fell across his eyes. He looked half animal to her.

“I had to
go
,” Izzy whined, indicating the toilet with a jerk of her chin. She hoped she sounded as drunk as he obviously was. She definitely looked the part with her wild hair and raccoon eyes. Just another party girl who’d wandered away from the festivities.

His eyes narrowed. “How’d you get in here?”

She did her best to look confused. “What do you mean?” she half-slurred. “The door was open. And I had to pee.”

He held her tightly as he considered her at length. Izzy held her breath. He was clearly trying to remember whether or not the door had actually been locked when he’d put the key in. The way he swayed on his feet seemed to indicate he might not actually recall. At this rate, Izzy might not have to knock him down. He might crash to the floor all on his own. She could hope, but she wasn’t usually so lucky.

Finally, he let go of her and took a few shuffling steps out of the bathroom. He looked around the bedroom, surveying it carefully. Izzy thought that was more than a little ridiculous. There was nothing to steal in this room. There was only a bong on the dresser and an extra pair of jeans draped over a ratty chair. There were no stacks of cash or even a weapon.

Apparently he agreed with her unspoken assessment because instead of accusing her of anything, he flopped down onto the edge of the bed.

“Take my boots off,” he ordered. He closed his eyes and swayed just a bit. Izzy held her breath as she watched him. She hoped he’d pass out and she could slip away easily. Instead of lying back, he cleared his throat and finally opened his eyes again. He stared down at her and raised an eyebrow. This wasn’t a man who was used to having to repeat himself.

Izzy cautiously moved in front of him and knelt down. She unlaced one boot and then the other as he looked down at her. She took her time so she could assess the situation. She wasn’t too worried. She was armed to the teeth and he was high and hammered. Her only real problem would be whether or not he could sound the alarm before she managed to pistol whip him into unconsciousness. He was twice her size, but she was fast, and she had the element of surprise on her side. He wouldn’t know what hit him, literally. She couldn’t think of an excuse to leave the room without doing what she was told and if she tried to beg off, he might get suspicious
—or violent. So she lulled him into a deeper sense of security by sliding his boots off and setting them aside. She was just about to spring to her feet when he reached for his belt and fumbled with it.

For as drunk as he was, his fingers were still nimble and well-practiced. He had his fly open in no time and she found herself staring at his semi-erect cock. Her mouth dropped open, which he seemed to take as a good sign.

“Get your mouth on it, girl,” he demanded and leaned back onto the bed.

Izzy hesitated then stood up. She was reaching for her Glock, which was tucked into the waistband of her jeans, when the distinct sound of the man’s snoring made her pause. She edged a bit closer to the bed and
, sure enough, the president of the Badlands Buzzards was passed out, dick flopping against his belly, mouth slightly open. If she weren’t so nervous, she’d laugh.

She tucked the gun away safely and
then quietly made her way to the door. After checking to see that the hallway was clear, she slipped out and ducked out the open window. In the dark, she sprinted toward her car and didn’t slow until she threw open the door and slid safely behind the wheel. She cranked the engine and did her best not to peel off from the curb, even though she really wanted to.

She sped past the warehouse, turned onto the cross street and headed back to the relative safety of the motel. Thankfully, no one had seen her car. She kept to the speed limit the rest of the way and made it back to
the Rainbow motel with little traffic. She pulled into the spot directly in front of her room, pulled her laptop out from under the seat, and stalked to the door. A grungy-looking man in a stained wife beater and cut-off jean shorts lounged in the doorway of the neighboring room.

“Hey, there gir
—”

“Fuck off,” Izzy snapped and gave him the finger.

“Bitch,” he groused.

She ignored him and unlocked the door. Slamming it closed behind her, she settled into the chair in the corner of the room and set her computer on the table. It took more than a few deep breaths to calm down, though. Izzy was good under pressure, but she wasn’t made of steel. Things could have gone very, very badly tonight. She only hoped the payoff was worth all the trouble.

She lifted the lid on the laptop and turned it on. Opening one of the programs, she calibrated the reception until it was optimal. She listened intently for a few moments, cycling through the feeds. Jason’s room was silent, the party was still in full swing with what sounded like a gang bang in the main room, and the piss-drunk prez was snoring away in his back bedroom. Izzy set all three transmitters to record and rose from the chair. She hadn’t touched the man’s cock, but she felt like she needed to shower anyway.