The Intersection of Purgatory and Paradise (25 page)

“Ma’am, I need you to do something for me, all right?”

“Sure.”

“I need you to get your children and come on outside.”

“Outside?”

“Yes. Calmly and quietly.”

Despite the terror in her eyes, Mrs. Marshall managed to put on a convincing smile. With a few quick instructions, she herded three children out the front door, the youngest fumbling with her shoes as she trailed behind the others.

“Katie, come on.” Mrs. Marshall waited for her at the bottom of the steps.

“Shoes with laces are always tricky, aren’t they, angel?” Daniels asked, sweeping the girl and her shoe up in his arms.

She looked at him with suspicion in her eyes. “I can do them all by myself!” she announced, holding up her other foot. The laces were tangled together and coming undone. “Almost all by myself.”

“You can tie them down here. You get to look at a real police car. Have you ever gotten to sit in one?”

“I have!” She giggled. “My daddy has a police car. He let me sit in it once.”

“That’s right. It’ll be just like that.”

The unmistakable sound of a shotgun discharging echoed from the backyard. Daniels cradled the little girl’s head against his chest, trying to cover both her ears at once, and raced toward the nearest patrol car, urging the other children and Mrs. Marshall ahead of him.

Doug drew his pistol once Mrs. Marshall and her youngest children were safely back. “I’ll go around to the right,” he said. He kept the gun low as he hurried around the house toward the expansive backyard filled with raised garden beds, swing sets, and children’s toys. And there, in the middle of the domestic clutter, was Nate Marshall.

The skinny teen stood over his father, pressing the barrel of a shotgun into his neck.

“Police! Drop your weapon and put your hands in the air!” Doug shouted, sighting on the boy’s chest.

Nate glared at him, then shifted his attention back to his father. “He deserves it,” Nate growled. “He deserves worse than anything I could do to him.”

“Drop your weapon!” Doug called.

“He’s a murderer!” Nate screamed, settling the butt of the shotgun against his shoulder. “He killed Caleb! It wasn’t enough to call Caleb a liar, to let those fuckers hurt him. He killed him!”

“No,” Doug said quickly. “No, he didn’t.”

“Of course he did. He all but admitted it. He said I never should have gone back to him. He said it was my fault. But it was his. It was always his fault. I could have protected Caleb. I could have stopped it. I could have saved him.”

“Nate, I know how much it hurts when someone you love is attacked, but there’s no way your father killed him.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Nate raised the shotgun and fired.

Doug spun around, bringing his arm up to cover his eyes as the tiny flecks of metal hit his jacket, shoulder, and side. It stung, but his suit absorbed most of the impact. A half-dozen burning flecks of steel hit his hand, making him drop his gun into the dark grass.

“You don’t know a damn thing about it!” Nate steadied the gun and stomped forward. “You get to be with the person you love, and no one can do anything about it. Caleb got hurt because I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there because he tried to take Caleb away from me. He didn’t just try. He made everyone think Caleb lied. He took everything away from him. He killed him! Even if you arrest me, I will break out, and I will find him. I will make him suffer everything Caleb suffered.”

“I don’t know, huh?” Doug shifted his neck, relieved that nothing hurt. He tried to see where his gun had landed and keep his eyes on Nate at the same time, but Nate was moving fast. Doug grabbed the barrel of the shotgun and shoved it up into the air, twisting it out of Nate’s hands and smacking him in the jaw with the gun stock.

“Caleb shot himself,” Doug said, opening the chamber and dumping the shells out. “The gun he used belonged to his father. The angle of the bullet matched what we would expect to find when someone puts a gun in their mouth and pulls the trigger. It shoots nearly straight up. A higher angle is normal with a gun with more kickback. I know there was gunpowder residue on Caleb’s hands, and I know it matched the powder mix of the bullets still in the gun. I know he wanted to die.”

Nate staggered to his feet, clenching his jaw. “He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t have killed himself.”

“I know what he went through can make anyone consider suicide,” Doug said with absolute confidence. “Being raped made me consider it quite a few times.”

“You….” Nate’s voice shook.

“And believe it or not, I even know what it’s like to feel helpless when you find out someone you love has been hurt and there is nothing you can do about it.”

“You liar! You don’t know what it’s like.”

Doug spun Nate’s unresisting body around and shoved him to the ground. He tugged his handcuffs out of the case on his belt and clasped them around Nate’s wrists, tightening them as much as he dared. “I know a lot of stuff, kid. Mostly, I know if you’re going to shoot someone, you use ammunition that’s actually going to stop them. Shooting someone with fucking bird shot is only going to piss them off.”

“He wouldn’t kill himself,” Nate cried. “He wouldn’t leave me.”

“I didn’t,” Marshall called out, his voice hoarse. “Caleb said he didn’t want anyone to know what happened. He begged me to keep it quiet. I didn’t hurt him, Nate. I wouldn’t.”

Nate twisted and squirmed beneath Doug, trying to throw him off. “You liar. Caleb wouldn’t leave me.”

“Damn it, Heavy Runner!” Daniels caught up to him at last, panting. “I get that you’re personally invested, but….” He bent at the waist, his elbows on his knees. “When I say ‘wait’ I mean it!”

“Heavy Runner, Hayes,” Marshall coughed.

He looked up at Marshall, half expecting him to shoot him before he got to his feet. Marshall was on his knees, rubbing his throat. His hands were empty, so Doug relaxed a little. “What?” Doug asked.

Six officers poured in the yard, guns trained on Marshall and his son.

Marshall nodded toward a crumpled shape on the grass. “Hayes,” he gasped. “Shot. Fell.”

Doug’s stomach sank as he saw Christopher’s motionless figure. The world around him ground to a halt, and the darkness around Christopher seemed to close in like some unnatural specter trying to steal Christopher away from him. He wanted to go to him, but Nate was still struggling beneath him, and Marshall wasn’t secured.

Doug didn’t trust himself to speak. A highway patrol officer took Marshall down. Daniels knelt beside Christopher, running a flashlight over him from his legs all the way up to his head. Doug saw specks of black and red splattered across Christopher’s bare arm and neck.

“It was bird shot. He shouldn’t be hurt,” Doug whispered.

The tiny pellets, smaller and lighter than the shot used in a child’s BB gun, had lodged themselves in Christopher’s skin.

“His face,” Doug breathed. “Did any hit his eyes? His temples? He can’t be hurt. Not again.”

Half a dozen men in uniform were suddenly around him. Someone lifted him off Nate and steered him toward Christopher, shoving him to his knees. He saw Daniels calling out orders, but Doug couldn’t hear the words. Another officer knelt beside him, nodding at whatever Daniels had said. Together, they rolled Christopher over, and Doug focused on his face. Blood pooled from a cut near his hairline, and it dripped around his brow bone.

“Heavy Runner, snap out of it!” Daniels shook him. “I know the whole ‘apply pressure’ thing, but beyond that, I’m a little out of my depth.”

Doug shook his head frantically. “No! He can’t be hurt again.”

The sheriff groaned and leaned over Doug, pressing down on the cut on Christopher’s forehead with his hands.

“No!” Doug grabbed his wrist and pulled him back. “Give me your flashlight.” Doug forced himself not to look at Christopher’s face, so still he might have been asleep. Instead, he looked at the wound, watching the blood flow, checking the depth of the laceration, praying he didn’t see the swelling that would indicate a skull fracture.

Christopher squeezed his eyes shut tight and then blinked against the glare of the flashlight. “Ouch,” he muttered.

Doug let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Thank God,” he whispered, shining the light directly in Christopher’s eyes. His pupils contracted into tight circles. Both pupils, together. “Oh thank God,” he cried again.

Christopher tried to sit up but winced. “No God stuff,” he muttered.

Doug sat back, chuckling. “I’ll thank everything from God to a flying spaghetti monster if it means you just need stitches.”

A fireman he worked with on the Search and Rescue team touched his shoulder. Doug turned and found the yard behind him filled with people. Most of the fire department was there, along with officers who were supposed to have the day off.

Daniels rolled his eyes and shoved him away. “You can get all sappy later. If you can’t treat him, let these boys do their job.”

Doug moved out of the way so the fire crew could begin evaluating the cut on Christopher’s head. Doug hovered, watching them load Christopher onto a stretcher and roll him away. Three members of the highway patrol walked Marshall away with his hands cuffed behind his back. Nate Marshall, still screaming, was taken to another car once his father was secured.

“Heavy Runner, you need to see one of the EMTs too,”
Daniels said, shoving him toward the front of the house. “Your hand looks like it’s been through a meat grinder.”

Doug glanced down at the swollen black and red dots along his hand. It didn’t hurt yet, but he suspected he had a lot of adrenaline to thank for that. He opened and closed his hand experimentally. “I have to find my gun first.”

Daniels nodded toward another officer who had been lingering behind him. He held Doug’s pistol patiently. Once it was back in his holster, his racing heartbeat calmed down a little.

“You all right?” Daniels asked. “No one’s going to think any less of you if you’re going to be sick,” he whispered.

“Actually, I’m okay,” Doug said thoughtfully. And he was. For once, his intestines didn’t feel like they were trying to crochet themselves into interesting shapes. “But I’m done.” He unclipped his badge from his belt and held it out to Daniels. “I can’t do this anymore. Not here. Not even for another two weeks.”

Daniels stared at the badge, then glared at him. “If you think quitting your job is going to get you out of writing the report on this fiasco, you’re out of your damn mind. When I’ve got every form, every report, and every little scrap of paper Human Resources insists they need, then you can turn in your badge. In the meantime, get your ass out to that ambulance right now.”

Doug gaped at him and returned his badge to his belt. “Paperwork?”

“Paperwork,” Daniels nodded, but he sounded sympathetic. “I know. If this were an action movie, you’d be riding off into the sunset or doing something romantic. It isn’t, so if you’re in good enough shape you don’t need to see a doctor, you can start on the paperwork.”

Doug dropped his chin to his chest, sighing in defeat. “I’ll take the doctor,” he muttered, letting Daniels guide him toward the waiting ambulance and Christopher.

“W
ILL
YOU
please let me carry something?” Christopher asked, racing through the hospital corridors to keep up with Doug.

Doug shifted to keep four cups of coffee, balanced on a drink carrier designed to carry much smaller drinks, from toppling over. The box of donuts in his other hand wobbled dangerously. “What part of ‘not a chance’ was confusing?”

“I’m fine, Doug.”

“Aside from the concussion, you mean? And the thirty-seven different spots you were shot?”

“Those don’t count,” Christopher insisted. “They weren’t bullets. They were like giant grains of sand from hell. I’ve been through a lot worse.”

“You don’t get to help. I’ve got it.” Doug turned toward the closed door and glared at it.

“Let’s see you knock, then.”

Doug smirked at him and then kicked the bottom of the door three times.

Brittney opened the door, her eyes lighting up when she saw them. “It’s about time you came by to visit.” She took the drink tray and maneuvered it into the room gracefully. “Look who’s here.”

“Doug?” Jackson smiled at him from the hospital bed. He tried to wave, but then he cringed and cradled his bandaged arm. “Tell me you brought real food? Please tell me you brought real food.”

“Real food?” Doug looked confused. “I was supposed to bring real food? Crap, I brought donuts. I guess I can throw these out and go cook something.”

“No!”

“It’s no trouble,” Doug said, grinning. “I can go broil some tofu, steam some veggies, and open up one of those packets of instant brown rice. Nourishing food, that’s what you need.”

“Please give me the donuts,” Jackson whined. “I’ve been eating hospital portions of nourishing food for two days. I’m dying here.”

“Oh, fine.” Doug set the box of donuts on Jackson’s lap with a flourish. “Brit said you were going nuts without junk food, but I didn’t think it’d be this bad.”