Missouri Loves Company (Rip Lane Book 1) (9 page)

CHAPTER 29

T
HE OUTDOOR SHOOTING
range was impressive, with a sheltered shooting stand, and a number of unsheltered stands. It was located an hour from S’mores and Snores Campground, though I had motorcycled there in less than forty minutes.

The smell of gunpowder was strong as I made my way to the shooting line. I inhaled deeply. The deafening gunfire of the shooters was muted by my earplugs. Muted, but still loud.

I had brought both of my guns, the Glock Twenty-two, and the Glock Twenty-seven. The former was my primary gun, the latter my backup gun.

Holding my primary gun in both hands, I pulled the trigger twice.

The gun roared.

Bam! Bam!

Both rounds hit the bull’s-eye, but not in its center. I was out of practice and it showed.

I shot some more.

After a few minutes I returned my primary gun to my belt holster. I wanted to practice with my backup gun, which I kept in an ankle holster.

First I assumed my shooting stance. Body turned slightly sideways, left foot forward, right foot back. Not unlike a boxing stance. Next I threw my right foot back and simultaneously brought my left hand down to the inside of my left pant leg. Near the middle of my calf I took hold of the pant leg and yanked it up. Meanwhile I threw my right hand down to the inside of my left ankle and gripped my gun and pulled it from the holster. I brought it up while adding support with my left hand. Then I extended my arms out in front of me, aimed, and fired three rounds. All three hit the exact center of the bull’s-eye.

By the time I got back to the campground the sky was dark gray and the rain was falling in sheets. I was toweling my head dry when I heard knuckles rapping on my door.

“Come in out of the rain, Sally.”

“Actually I just stopped by to see if you wanted to join me and Harry for some lunch. I made chicken noodle soup.”

“I’ll be right over.”

When I had finished lunch I returned to my motor home and took a long nap. The rain drummed hard on the roof.

Taking naps is not something I do often. But I was still in recovery mode, and I needed extra rest to speed up the process.

For two weeks it rained every day. The days ran together for me, a constant cycle of exercising and eating and resting. I would go from pull-ups to push-ups, from sit-ups to throw-ups. I would go from running up the stairs to eating at my dinette table to sleeping in my bed. Every day was the same.

CHAPTER 30

O
NE RAINY EVENING
I invited Lance over for dinner.

“Look at you,” he said. “Back into shape already.”

“Getting there,” I said.

Since Lance had mentioned Okinawa as his favorite place in the world, I had driven to a local Asian market and picked up some Okinawan cuisine. Our dinner consisted of goya champuru, soba, and tempura. We ate with chopsticks. We did not sit on the floor.

“This brings back memories,” Lance said.

“Good ones I hope,” I said.

“Great ones. Okinawa is known as Japan’s tropical playground.”

“I heard karate was developed there.”

“You’ve been watching the
Karate Kid
movies.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“It’s true—karate was developed in Okinawa.”

“Guess there must have been some bullies on Japan’s tropical playground.”

After dinner I told Lance the good news.

“I found your lost love. She’s living in California.”

“Mary’s alive?”

“Very much so.”

“And you found her?”

“I did.”

“How?”

I told him.

“How do I get in touch with her, Rip?”

“Here’s her phone number.”

Lance cried.

I try to help people when I can. For me it is a cathartic experience. Helping people helps me. It makes me feel better about myself. It helps me cope with my guilt.

When I joined the United States Marshals Service I knew I would be involved in deadly force situations. I knew I would have to kill some bad guys. But I didn’t know how it would affect me.

Killing people, no matter how evil they are, is always a traumatic experience. It causes psychological stress. The emotional impact is intense. Emotional scars may not be as visible as physical scars but they often take longer to heal.

Law enforcers are supposed to be brave and strong and tough. They frequently view themselves as invincible. As superhuman. Quite a self-image to live up to.

Sometimes critical incidents arise that challenge this self-image. Or destroy it completely. The cold reality stuns like ice water.

One such incident is a fatal shooting. Reactions to fatal shootings vary from one law enforcer to another. Some have no reaction at all. Others suffer deeply from the emotional impact of taking a human life. Most experience a degree of guilt—no matter how justified the use of deadly force may be.

No amount of job training can prepare law enforcers for fatal shootings. These events are psychologically distressing. They fall outside the range of ordinary human experience. Their emotional impact can be overwhelming.

Those who experience post-shooting trauma often feel helpless and out of control. Side effects might surface in the form of anger, confusion, depression, disillusionment, frustration, grief, insecurity, and terror.

Mostly what I feel is guilt. I deal with it by helping people.

CHAPTER 31

T
HE DAY BEGAN
like every other day. Wake up. Make the bed. Drink some coffee. Eat some oats and blueberries. Brush my teeth. Go to the bathroom. Check my email. Work on my novel for an hour. Put on my Adidas running gear. Head out the door.

Then the day was different—not like every other day.

The sun was out. The rain had finally stopped.

I ran to the abandoned building, stood at the foot of the stairs.

I told myself, Today you’re going to do it. You’re going to attack those stairs and make it all the way up to the top floor.

Then I did it. Ten stories up. Twenty flights of steps.

On the top floor I did a little victory dance. Nothing that would win me the mirrorball trophy, though nothing to be embarrassed about either.

Afterward I jogged back to the campground. The hot sun felt good on my skin. I was all smiles.

At the campground I went to the horizontal tree branch and reached up and took hold of it. I knocked out thirty-three pull-ups.

I took a minute to rest.

Then I dropped to the grass and started to do push-ups. I ripped through sixty-five of them.

I took another minute to rest.

Then I turned over and started to do sit-ups. I cranked out sixty-two of them.

I WAS BACK.

CHAPTER 32

G
OING AFTER THE
bad guys would require strength.

Physical strength. Mental strength. Emotional strength.

It would also require a plan. One with clear and achievable aims.

I believe I had a moral justification for what I was going to do.

There would be consequences.

I was prepared to pay them.

Anna had lied to me, and set me up. Goons had burglarized my motor home. Cops had arrested me for no reason at all. Together the goons and the cops had beaten me to a pulp and left me for dead.

I needed to go after them. To hell with the consequences.

Anna was not the first person to ever lie to me. Everybody lies. Men lie. Women lie. Children lie. Adults lie. You lie. I lie too.

Everybody lies.

But nobody likes to be lied to.

Especially when it endangers your life. Especially when the lie comes from somebody you helped out. Especially.

The Pottsland welcoming committee could have left me alone. Should have left me alone. They did not have to come after me. They did not have to try to kill me.

Snuffing me out isn’t that easy. Fugitives have tried. Gangsters, mobsters, thugs. They tried. They failed.

I don’t like it when people try. It makes me angry.

I expect fugitives to try. But not cops. Cops are supposed to be good guys.

The two Pottsland cops were not good guys. They were corrupt. Sadistic.

They needed to be taught a lesson. One they would never forget. An Introduction to Ethics. Taught by Professor Rip Lane.

Pottsland was just a town I had been passing through. I had not planned on stopping there, and I had certainly not planned on staying. But circumstances had changed that. People from Pottsland had changed that. They couldn’t let me be. They had to disrupt my life, bring chaos into my ordered existence, and irritate the hell out of me.

I could have been enjoying my trip to Missouri. Could have been seeing the sights of St. Louis. Anheuser-Busch Brewery. Forest Park. Gateway Arch. Missouri Botanical Garden. St. Louis Zoo.

These were the sights I had wanted to see. Not the Pottsland bus station, the Pottsland jail, and the inside of a car trunk.

I can forgive and forget. Make an honest mistake, I can forgive you. Tell a small white lie, I can forgive you.

Try to kill me?

I’m coming after you.

There could be no forgiveness for the four men who had tried to kill me. No forgiving. No forgetting. Only payback.

But how to do it?

The plan would come to me in time. I was sure of that.

In the meantime I needed to find Anna. She was the key to understanding this whole mess. She would be able to explain everything that was going on. And I needed to understand everything if I wanted to put an end to it.

I was tempted to hunt down my would-be killers and confront them directly. But I knew that revenge was best exacted by indirect methods. So I did not give into temptation.

Anna was hiding somewhere. Hiding from the bad guys. She did not want to be found. I was going to find her anyway.

I didn’t know her last name. I didn’t know her home address. There was a lot I didn’t know about Anna.

What I did know was that she had a duffel bag. A black and red duffel bag with the St. Louis Cardinals logo on it. It was a big bag. She could have bought it anywhere. There were probably thousands of places in the world that sold that particular kind of bag.

But Pottsland was where Anna had lived her entire life—if she had not been lying to me about that. And so Pottsland was probably where Anna had bought the duffel bag.

It was where I needed to start looking.

CHAPTER 33

I
N THE CAMPGROUND
office I scanned the yellow pages for sporting goods stores. I ran my finger down the listings. It didn’t run very far. There were only three sporting goods stores listed in Pottsland.

Exiting the office, I ran into Lance. He seemed very excited.

“What’s new, Lance.”

“I phoned Mary.”

“You talk to her?”

“For two hours.”

“And?”

“She told me her husband died two years ago. Prostate cancer.”

“Cancer’s a bitch.”

“It is.”

“What else Mary have to say?”

“Said she was glad to hear from me. What got me choked up, she told me she kept my ring. I gave it to her when we were dating, and she kept it all these years.”

“No kidding.”

“She told me she was looking through her jewelry box one day, trying to find something to give her granddaughter, who was standing beside her at the time. The granddaughter reaches into the jewelry box and picks up my ring. She wanted it. But Mary told her she couldn’t have it. Told her she could have anything else she wanted in the jewelry box. But not that ring. Because it was the one I gave her.”

“That’s something, Lance.”

“I’m going to fly out to California to see her.”

“Why not drive your Arctic Fox there?”

“Can’t wait that long.”

“Mary’s a lucky woman.”

“I’m hoping to get lucky too.”

“Just don’t eat any onions on the plane.”

“Don’t worry.”

It was nice to see romance working out for somebody. Especially a lonely widower. I was happy for Lance.

I got on my motorcycle and drove into downtown Pottsland. The first sporting goods store I went to was The Jock’s Niche. I looked around. On a shelf in the back were some black and red duffel bags with the St. Louis Cardinals logo on them.

I dug into my pocket and brought out the picture of Anna. I showed it to the store clerk. He was dressed like a referee. Or a zebra.

“Ever see this woman?”

“Wasn’t she in the
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit issue?”

The next sporting goods store I visited was Sporticus. I checked their shelves. They carried the right kind of duffel bags. The store clerk wore a lot of hot pink lipstick, and wasn’t very good at coloring inside the lines.

“Ever see this woman?”

“Nope.”

I got lucky at the third sporting goods store. I entered Get Into Gear, spotted the black and red duffel bags on a shelf, and then went over to speak to the store clerk. Thin guy with a goatee.

“Ever see this woman?”

“Yes.”

“She bought a duffel bag here?”

“I know her from high school. She graduated a year before me.”

“Know her name?”

“Anna.”

“Last name?”

“Cruz.”

“Know where she lives?”

His eyes became suspicious.

“You a stalker or something?”

I frowned and took a twenty-dollar bill from my wallet and set it on the counter. His hand was lightning fast.

“She lives somewhere on Bluebird Street.”

“Got a house number?”

“For twenty bucks?”

I wasn’t going to pay him another penny. Google could tell me what I wanted to know.