Blinded by the Night 381
Non-Fiction Books by L. A. Kane…
Surviving Armed Assaults
Martial Arts Instruction
The Way of Kata (co-written with Kris Wilder)
The Way to Black Belt (co-written with Kris Wilder)
The Little Black Book of Violence (co-written with Kris Wilder)1
Praise for Blinded by the Night…
“If you like your cop fiction rough and tumble, Blinded by the Night will be right down your dark alley. Kane’s expertise in matters of mayhem shines throughout as his Seattle police Sergeant Richard Hayes deals with the unexpected appearance of Eldritch, from vampires to trolls to werewolves. Kane has written several well-received martial arts books. Here’s a promising debut for his first novel.” — Steve Perry, New York Times bestselling author (www.themanwhonevermissed.blogspot.com)
“Think cop fiction meets metaphysical fantasy bathed in testosterone. That’s the world and story line Kane has created. It’s solid action/fantasy fiction for men. It’s sure to be as addictive and long-running as Mack Bolan and the Executioner series since it’s very much in the same genre, only with more supernatural creatures in the fray. A great read; it kept me up all night wondering what was going to happen next and to whom. Cops know the world is filled with werewolves, elves, vampires, trolls and freaks, but who knew you could actually write these characters into a crime scene and make them sound believable and real! Kane combines solid, real world knowledge about police work and self-defense with the best information about metaphysics and energy to create a very human, but very mythical tale. Call it a story about the co-existence of a shadow government of vampires, werewolves, trolls and spirit forces even the most astute conspiracy theorists were unaware of, or call it action with fangs, fur and teeth, but it’s a fun, fast, and entertaining read either way! I’m looking forward to the next book in the series. This is Kane’s first novel, but I don’t think it will be his last.” — Becky Blanton, author of Stay Hungry (www.beckyblanton.com)
“Excellent imagery, intriguing characters, complex society… This urban vampire epic will reveal the fine line that separates the world, as you know it, from the supernatural realm. Overall an entertaining read.” — Martina Sprague, author of Fighting Science (www.modernfighter.com)
“In a genre filled with sparkly, angst-ridden, misunderstood super beings, Kane returns to the idea that monsters aren’t nice and cuddly… even when they aren’t slaughtering innocent people. He has created a credible, self-consistent shadow world that parallels our own. The monsters are believable, the action is realistic, and the story is loads of fun.” — Marc MacYoung, author of Violence, Blunders, and Fractured Jaws, A Professional’s Guide to Ending Violence Quickly, and many other best-selling books (www.nononsenseselfdefense.com)
“A devilishly delightful tale that is so inviting and more deliciously succulent than a co-ed's tender young neck, that you will be salivating for the opportunity to sink your fangs deep into it. And if that wasn’t enough, you will also be enveloped by its overpowering aroma of unbridled sexual suspense and voracious violence that will leave you with an insatiable craving for more.” — Myster Darke, author of The Dark One series, philosopher, and fellow creature of the night
“It’s a hard job being a cop. It’s even harder when you first don’t believe in the world you must police ... and then discover you need to learn a whole new set of rules to do your job. And that’s just what’s happened to Richard Hayes. Kane has developed a fast-paced, fascinating dimension into which his real-world cop is dropped with a splash, to say the least. Start Blinded by the Night early in the day because you will read this page-turner long after dark. A tour de force first novel.” — Dianna Gordon, co-author Outright Kill
Blinded by the Night
Copyright © 2010 by Lawrence A. Kane
EAN-13: 978-1-453-66285-4
ISBN: 1-453662-85-5
First Edition: July, 2010
Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, situations, locations, and incidents are either the product of the author’s fevered imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to genuine persons, living, dead, or undead, or to actual places, events, businesses, or organizations, is entirely coincidental.
For Joey. You da man! And it makes me so proud to be able to say that…
Acknowledgements
I am grateful to Marc “Animal” MacYoung and his infamous Animal Listees for all their help and support. A “food group with a violence problem,” the List is comprised of law enforcement officers, martial artists, military personnel, and various and sundry other colorful characters who lead enormously interesting lives (in the ancient Chinese curse sense of the term). They share their experiences at an annual BBQ, as well as over the internet. Many of the events in this book were inspired by real-life stories from that eclectic group.
Marc’s suggestions, spawned from countless hours poring through early drafts of the work, were brilliant. Imogheena Farandel, Joey Kane, Rory Miller, Martina Sprague, and Jocelyne Thomas provided discerning feedback. Don Roley translated the Japanese. Kris Wilder designed the cover art and Shawn Kovacich did the layout. Kat Richardson’s keen insight markedly improved my writing, while Dianna Gordon helped ameliorate my grammatical deficiencies. And, Steve Perry saved me (and you) from adverb poisoning.
Without all these wonderful people, the book you hold in your hands could never have been written.
Any residual imperfections are entirely my own.
Dramatis Personae
Humans:
Richard Hayes: SPD1 sergeant
Patricia (Patty) Hayes: Richard’s wife
Isaac Hayes: WSP2 officer, Richard’s son
Kris Rauche: SPD officer, Richard’s partner
Ray Porter: SPD chief of police, Richard’s boss
Alan Meier: UWPD3 assistant chief of police, Richard’s friend
James Patterson: attorney at law, Richard’s lawyer
Rory McCree: celebrity chef
Vampires:
Asif Nashariff: King of Virga
Adrianna McCree: Virga’s seneschal, restaurateur
Michael Rosen: Virga’s chronicler
Amber Schwartzpferd: Virga’s exchequer
Fiona Stuart: Virga’s emissary
Kenji Takamura: King of Inculta
Tokugoro Yamada: Takamura’s factotum
Trolls:
Marc Reilly: tobacconist
Suzanne Reilly: bodyguard
Rupert Rourke: chauffer
Werewolves:
Dr. Reynard Sybil: Virga’s chirurgeon, veterinarian
Dr. Alexandra Sybil: psychologist
Theo Langley: Asif’s personal pilot
Savohn Alexander: college student. LaShanna’s twin
LaShanna Alexander: college student, Savohn’s twin
Arthur Royal: firefighter, LaShanna’s fiancé
Delilah Gutierrez: owner, Blue Moon
Brent Allegra: manager, Allure (a Gentleman’s Club)
Other Eldritch:
Deirdre: concubine, succubus/sidhe
Ryosuke Ito: sensei, human/karasu tengu
Walther Blackthorn: Virga’s herald, satyr
Stanislaw Lao: UW history professor, necromancer
Portia Leary: celebutante, wererat
Prologue
Cloaking himself in darkness, he left the cover of the trees. While his power was negligible compared to that of his master, he knew that only the most observant of humans, say a soldier or peace officer, could perceive him as he ghosted through the night. The jogger was far from vigilant, oblivious in fact. Humming along with the tune on her iPod, she noticed nothing awry. He followed for a dozen meters before she turned off the trail and started up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
She was lean and compact, this one, less voluptuous than his wont, but her nipples had strained against the thin fabric of her sports bra in an intriguing way when she had passed moments ago, prompting him to follow. She was blond, sufficiently attractive if not outright lovely, and underdressed for the November weather. He rather liked that. A lot.
Alas, his orders were explicit. This was someone whose disappearance would garner attention. But, he needed to act before she reached a public area and the student union building was nearly in sight. With a burst of speed, he rushed past her, and then stopped a few meters beyond the head of the stairs.
When she reached the trail and turned his way he released the shadows. She let out a startled gasp, backpedaled, and nearly fell as he appeared before her.
“I, uh … Jesus you startled me.”
She would have said more but he smiled and the color drained from her face. With a shaking hand she fumbled in the pack at her waist and pulled out a neon pink wand about twice the size of a cell phone. He had no idea what the device was; it looked a bit like a flashlight but she held it in both hands as if it were a weapon.
“D-don’t come any closer.” Lifting the device she did something that made a brilliant red dot appear on his chest. It was painfully bright. “I’m sorry I almost ran you over, but I’m leaving now. You … you just stand there and let me go!”
Drinking in her fear he licked his lips, made eye contact, and then took a slow, deliberate step in her direction. For a heartbeat nothing happened, then with a burp of rushing air a bit of confetti burst from the end of the thing she carried and a pair of thin wires buried themselves in his chest. The device crackled and a burst of pain shot through him. Kuso that hurt! And not in a good way.
Enraged by her smug expression more than the pain, he snarled and lurched forward, ripping the wires out of his chest as he moved. As they fell away the agony vanished. The look on her face was more than adequate recompense for his discomfort. She went from haughty to shocked then terrified in heartbeats. Trembling, her breath hiccupped in staccato bursts as he closed the distance between them.
He grabbed her hair, wrenched her head to the side, and then cocked his head to glare into her eyes. Ah, much better now. Trembling, she let out mewling, terrified squeaks; an unsuccessful attempt to scream. He savored her fear until the stink of her bowels letting go reminded him of his duty. Then he sank his teeth into her neck.
…
ONE
We were parked on a side street a couple blocks away from the perp’s house. Seated behind the wheel of our squad car, Kris turned his big, bald head my way, glowering. With his shaved pate and regulation-bending handlebar mustache, I suspect that my partner was trying for some sort of outlaw-biker chic. But to be honest, I thought it made him look like a bowling ball eating a whiskbroom. Not that I’d ever say that out loud. He was bigger than me.
“Stop playing with your damned pen and pay attention when I’m talking to you, Richard,” he snapped.
I glanced down to discover I’d been rolling my pen between my fingers again. I didn’t remember picking it up. Forcing myself to stop, I stuffed it back into my uniform sleeve. Since my son had made it for me nine years ago, I’d written a hell of a lot of citations with that pen. More than a writing instrument, it was my lucky charm. That talisman saw me safely through two shootouts and four totaled squad cars. I’d wound up with a good case of whiplash, a couple of concussions, and a head full of gray hair, but nothing serious.
“I am paying attention you ‘tard, you’re just boring me.” I leveled my best glare back at him. I had a damn good glower, one that had made recalcitrant frat boys pee their pants, but my partner was sadly immune. Familiarity, contempt, and all that …
“Fine, what did I say?” Damn, I’d been expecting light-hearted banter.
“You said that Paulo was inside and asked whether or not we should wait for backup,” I guessed.
“Well, should we?”
“Dunno. I’m thinking about it.” I’d been doing nothing of the kind. Hell, to be brutally honest, my mind had been wandering like a lobotomized cockroach all morning. I appraised our situation. Kris and I weren’t small guys. But the last time we’d served him a warrant, Paulo had broken Kris’s nose and busted a couple of my ribs through my ballistic vest before we’d Tasered him senseless. An all-state tackle in high school, the massive Samoan had run to fat, but he could still put up a hell of a fight.
At our morning briefing, I’d heard Paulo had beaten the crap out of a bounty hunter earlier in the week, sending the poor bastard to the hospital when he’d tried to serve the warrant we were carrying today.
“I think we should go now,” I said reluctantly. “He knows we’re after him, but he probably learned his lesson from last time. If we approach him all nice-like, he ought to come peaceably.”
“Well, if not, I’ll enjoy shoving my baton up his ass. Okay bro, let’s roll!”
Nothing like the prospect of a good fight to lighten Kris’s mood. Not a good thing in our line of work, but he was a good friend so I did my best to overlook, if not conveniently forget, his foibles. None of the excessive force claims against him had been found meritorious by internal affairs or the civilian oversight board that monitored our department.
“I’ll take the front,” I said. “You slip around back in case he decides to bolt.”
I watched my partner walk away, radioed our plan in to dispatch, then eased toward the front door of the bungalow. We’d parked far enough away to get the element of surprise, but Paulo could have been watching out the window or have had a buddy with a cell phone positioned somewhere down the street. Since our level three duty holsters made any kind of quick-draw impossible, I eased off the retention strap, resting my hand atop the grip of my pistol as I moved.
While I was almost certain I could talk him in, Paulo had a long rap sheet and an ever-increasing propensity toward violence. A twice-convicted felon, he couldn’t buy a weapon legally, but who knows what he might have picked up on the street. Unless he managed to plead things down once again, he was facing a third strike, too. No sense taking any chances that he’d rather go out fighting than face the possibility of spending the rest of his life in prison.
A squelch over the radio indicated that Kris was in position. Hand on my undrawn weapon, I pounded on the front door. “SPD! Open up, Paulo. We know you’re in there. Let’s keep it friendly this time!”
For a moment I was answered by silence. Suddenly, a door slammed, followed almost immediately by a loud crash. Damn, he was on the run!
I quickly checked the front door, found it locked, and then sprinted around back. Kris was still picking himself off the ground. Flattened nose gushing blood, he gave me a look that clearly said, ‘Don’t ask; don’t tell,’ then pointed toward the fence.
While a 350-pound fugitive might not have been able to hop over a six-foot barrier, he’d had no trouble crashing through it. Damn! Paulo was one seriously big son-of-a-bitch. One section of the wooden structure lay on the ground.
“Is he armed?” I asked.
“Don’t think so. He bolted the moment you knocked. Hit me with the damned door!” Kris must have looked up right as it opened to have caught it in the face rather than the ear.
“You alright?”
“Yeah, yeah. Go get him!”
“Okay. You grab the car and call it in.” I bolted across the downed fence as Kris scrambled to his feet behind me.
While I couldn’t see him, Paulo was easy enough to hear. He’d run across his neighbor’s yard, hit the alley, and was heading for the street. Did he have a car out there? I remembered a burgundy Toyota Rav 4 in the driveway. So probably not. It was a bit small for a guy his size, but I couldn’t know for sure. Didn’t really matter; I just had to catch him before he got there, wherever ‘there’ was.
I poured on the speed, covering ground in long smooth strides just as I had playing strong safety in college. It felt good to run, particularly in the chill weather. I wasn’t even pissed at Paulo for making me chase him, at least not yet. When I caught him, it’d probably be another story. Kris would certainly have a hell of a mad on. For the moment I just luxuriated in the movement, concentrating on controlling my breathing so that I wouldn’t be gasping for air if it came to a fight.
Bursting through the alley I caught a glimpse of Paulo running along the side street. A good 30 yards away, I could hear his labored breathing. Dude could use his time in the prison yard to get back in shape. He was wearing sweat pants and a wife-beater undershirt, but no shoes. Kris was right. He’d rabbited the instant he’d spotted us.
“He’s on 14th Avenue, Southwest, heading toward the water,” I radioed, noticing that there was no shake in my voice. I might have been on the downhill side of 45, but I could still run half a mile flat out before I even started to breathe heavily. This was kinda fun!
Because I’d slowed to fumble for the radio, I had only gained a few more steps on him before Paulo turned down another driveway. It belonged to one of those big, brick, Tudor-style jobs that look out of place in a neighborhood where smaller, bungalow designs were the norm. I called in the address as I burst around the corner, glancing back to see if Kris had brought the car up. No dice. Oh well, I’d catch Paulo myself.
I launched into the yard, picking up speed. I was getting close. I could feel it.
Flying down the driveway, I skirted a couple of parked cars and surged into the back yard. They’d built a massive deck behind the house, one of those fancy ones with a hot tub, outdoor kitchen, entertainment center, and whatnot, kind of unusual in Seattle where it rained so much. It had a massive overhang to keep the weather off, too. Pricey, I thought enviously. I could smell savory smoke coming from the barbeque and hear soft, island music playing on a stereo.
Spotting Paulo’s bulk reaching the top of the stairs, I leapt over the nearest rail to cut him off, then suddenly realized where I was. Directly in front of me were half a dozen massive guys relaxing on Adirondack chairs. They looked like the Seahawks fucking offensive line, only bigger. Damn. Where the hell did all these ginormous Samoans materialize from?
“Cop!” Paulo wheezed as he approached the middle of the deck, pointing my way.
Oh shit! As the group began lumbering out of their chairs, I could see at least two of them start to reach under their shirts. Weapons? Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit! There were seven of them to one of me. Armed or not, this was not going to end well.
A little known fact, at least to most civilians who don’t deal with blood and terror on a regular basis, is that there is a biological imperative to evacuate your bowels and bladder when you’re in deep shit. Probably where that phrase came from. In fact, it’s critical to do so because if you take a good shot with a full bladder there’s a significant chance it will rupture, causing life-threatening peritonitis.
Unexpectedly facing the gang, I had a sudden, overwhelming desire to pee. And I decided to take advantage of it. Before anyone could fully stand up, let alone react, I turned, took a half step to the edge of the deck, and unzipped my fly. In my peripheral vision, I could see startled faces as I whipped it out and began to take a piss.
Hey, part of being a cop is using the unexpected to your advantage. While you can’t draw a gun quickly from a duty holster, you can slip it out quietly while the bad guys’ attentions were diverted. And distracted they definitely were. When I’d finished, shook it off, and turned back around with my dick still hanging out, the stunned group took a moment to realize that I had the drop on them. My service issue Glock may be a ‘plastic gun,’ but any .45 is a terrifying sight when you’re staring down the wrong end of it.
Six hands quickly reached in unison for the sky. The seventh, a bald, tattooed guy closest to me, calmly poured out his beer, shook his head, and exclaimed, “Ssssshheeeeeeeeeeeit!” before dropping the bottle and raising his hands like the rest of the group.
“Let’s make this a happy ending, Paulo,” I said. Someone snickered at the unintentional entendre. “You come along quietly, and I’ll pretend I never saw your friends or what they were reaching for. No one gets hurt; no one gets busted but you. Deal?”
He glanced down at my dick, stared back up at my gun, and deflated. “All right. All right, I’ll go,” he mumbled. Turning back to the gang, “Someone call me a fuckin’ lawyer.”
As I bundled him into the car, he said, “You know, you’ve got a pretty big dick for a white boy, cop!”
I laughed. My partner, who’d missed all the action, sulked quietly as we drove away.
TWO
“Ugh!” The air whooshed out of my lungs as I fell awkwardly, bouncing across the hardwood in what was supposed to have been a graceful roll. Unlike judoka, we karate practitioners don’t use mats to break our falls. Karate can be lethal, but it also has a wide range of control applications that fit into the lower levels of our department’s use-of-force continuum. So tonight’s session was terrific, albeit painful, practice for the street. Maybe next time I’d be able to wrestle Paulo into submission. Or not.
I had missed half a dozen classes over the last several weeks. So Sensei had apparently decided to use me as his uke, or target dummy as I like to call it, to remind me to be more diligent about my attendance. I stifled a groan, lifted my legs, arched my back, and acrobatically flipped back up onto my feet. Never let ‘em see you sweat.
Unfortunately I was already covered with sweat, soaking through the layers of my uniform gi to dampen my faded black belt. I did manage to avoid grimacing in pain, however. I wasn’t the only one sweating up a storm. Sensei was on a real tear tonight. It was only halfway through the three-hour session and already the whole class looked disheveled, even the young guys.
“You know, Sensei, next time I pull your ass over I’m not lettin’ you off with a warning.” I grinned, trying to hide my exhaustion.
“Too bad I drive like a little old lady, Sergeant Hayes.”
Oh crap, he’d used my last name. I’d pissed him off again! I knew I had to watch my language in the dojo, but I was too damned tired to think clearly. It’s hard to switch gears after dealing with the foul-mouthed guys I hang with all day. I’ve always thought of myself as a mind-over-muscle kind of guy, so the slip was embarrassing. Honor the training hall and all that venerable Japanese shit.
“Moichido! Again!” Sensei grunted. “Punch at my head!”
Stifling a groan, I knew what was about to happen, but threw the punch anyway.
Somehow I managed to make it through the rest of the class with only a few hundred new bruises, stagger to the shower, and luxuriate under the warm jets. I actually felt pretty darn good after I finished toweling off in the locker room. I had just affixed my off-duty holster to my belt and pulled on my sweatshirt when I heard a noise. Glancing up, I saw Sensei staring at me.
“For a man whose life is on the line every time he clocks into his office, you have an awfully lackadaisical attitude toward your training,” he said.
My instructor’s full name was Ryosuke Ito, but we usually only called him sensei, an honorific that could be translated as ‘teacher.’ Funny how intimidating a soft-spoken, 5’4” elderly Japanese guy could be, even to someone who towers over him. He’d been teaching karate for almost half a century, 25 years of which I’d been his student. And he could do stuff that, if I hadn’t known better, I’d have sworn was magic.
“I get here as often as I can, Sensei. Whether I make it to class or not, I practice my kata every day.” Kata, or formal exercises, are the foundation of traditional martial arts. While solo practice isn’t the same as sparring, it’s genuinely effective. “Heck, I even think about training throughout the day. I know that visualization isn’t the same as actually practicing, but it does help keep me sharp. It’s just that I’ve had an awful lot going on lately.”
God, I sounded whiny and pathetic. Somehow over the years, this guy’s opinion of me had become even more important than my own father’s. The fact dad had died so young I barely remembered him exacerbated the effect. I desperately wanted Sensei to be proud of me.
“Yes, I do know that, Richard, and I am concerned about you. That is why I push you so hard. Your head is not here, even when your body is. Is it really so different on the street?” He watched disapprovingly as I tucked my pen into my coat pocket, and then slipped on the jacket. What could I say to that? I had been uncharacteristically distracted lately.
“Have you forgotten your meditation techniques?” he asked.
“No, Sensei, I haven’t. Really!” I wasn’t into all that ‘woo-woo shit’ he talks about like ki energy, meridians, and whatnot, but I hadn’t been sleeping right for quite some time. And the meditation helped. At least when I did it regularly … It wasn’t hard to do, but it did take a fair amount of time, a rare commodity in my life of late.
“Your head must remain clear, Richard.”
“I will meditate, Sensei.” I meant it.
He gave a sharp nod, grunting an affirmative. “Yes. See that you do.”
I locked the door, reset the alarm, tossed my keys into a basket on the counter, and collapsed into an easy chair in the living room. For a long moment I stared at the TV remote lying on the armrest, then changed my mind and left it untouched. I’d had a really long day capturing Paulo, grinding through paperwork after his arrest, and training at the dojo. Nevertheless I’d honestly felt pretty good, at least until I walked through that door. The condo was so damn … depressing. It sapped the energy right out of me.
I knew why, of course. It’d been Isaac’s place back when he’d … he’d … Fuck! I began to tear up. Cops don’t fucking cry. I smacked the padded armrest and launched myself back onto my feet.
Wandering over to my desk, I took my jacket off, hanging over chair before sliding the pen out of the inside pocket. Rolling it in my hand, I felt comforted by the cool, smooth surface. My son Isaac had made it for me in his high school shop class. The ironwood was carved into a classical cigar shape and polished to a bright luster. What made it special, beside the fact he’d built it by hand for me, was that his girlfriend Julie, an aspiring jeweler, had cast the fittings out of her grandfather’s silver St. Michael medallion. They thought it would not only be useful, but might even protect me. Hell of a gift, that pen. As things turned out, Isaac was the one who’d needed it.
I walked over and set it gently down on my nightstand. Well, really his nightstand, I suppose. This had been Isaac and Julie’s apartment once upon a time, in a much happier life. They’d been married right after college graduation. As a wedding gift, Patty and I had taken out a second mortgage, bought the condominium, and moved them in.
For a couple wonderful years, we’d been one big, happy family. Disgustingly happy, according to Kris, who had been in the throes of his second divorce. He was estranged from his first ex-wife and their son lived in Portland, Maine, those days. Isaac, on the other hand, wasn’t just my son; he was my best friend. His wife Julie and I had a lot of laughs together, too, often at his expense. Hell, they’d even given Patty and me a wonderful granddaughter, Annabelle. Funny, most of the time I really didn’t feel old enough to be a grandpa, but in that empty condo I felt positively ancient.
I sighed, sat down on the side of the bed, pulled off my boots, and briefly massaged my feet. I plucked the Glock out of my holster, slid a tactical light onto the rail and set it on the nightstand. Isaac had always wanted to be a cop like me, but he’d chosen the state patrol. I guess he’d wanted to travel more or something. I’d never asked. Maybe he just didn’t want to work under his old man’s shadow. Who knows? There are a lot of things I’d never asked and wished every day I had. Life is so damned … fleeting. I drew a deep breath, sat on the bed, and began massaging my temples.
What a fucking waste! Isaac was helping a stranded motorist change a flat tire when a drunk plowed into them. That little prick had four drunken driving convictions and a suspended license. He was still out cruising around because he’d told some overly compassionate weasel of a judge that he lived in his car. Two innocents had died that day, and who knows how many lives destroyed. And the drunk? That little cocksucker walked off with hardly a scratch. Fucking piece of shit!
Despite what happens to cops in prison, it would have been worth a life sentence to have blown his fool head off. I let out a deep sigh, knowing, while I might have fantasized, I’d never have followed through on that pipe dream. I’d kill if I had to, had killed in fact, but just didn’t have it in me to cold-heartedly murder a person, even someone who unquestionably deserved it.
I picked up a picture frame, another of Isaac’s woodworking projects. It held a faded, hand-written note he’d given to me for my birthday when he was 11. Even though I’d long since memorized the words, I reverently touched the glass as I read it again. While I rarely prayed any more, this had become something of a ritual.
As a sixth grader he’d written: Hey dad, I would have bought you a card, but I’m writing you this because pieces of paper don’t compare with cards, but a letter from the heart has always been better than a not very funny, meaningless sentence. Thank you dad! Thank you for always being there for me, for loving me, for caring about me. For being the best dad ever! Thank you for having the courage to say my son is different. I can trust him to do many things because he’s responsible and mature. Thank you! Happy birthday dad! I love you always, Isaac.
Isaac’s death had torn our lives apart. While Patty climbed into a bottle, I’d buried myself in work and pretended not to notice. Since she couldn’t count on us, Julie moved back to Anchorage to live with her parents. Long story short, I’d found myself living here. Alone. I hadn’t seen my wife in 10 months or even looked at my granddaughter in more than a year. And I still buried myself in my work. I doubt I spent more then four or five hours at ‘home’ most days. And most of that was sleeping.
Self-pity wasn’t doing any good. I had to do … something. Reaching over, I picked up the phone, dialing my old number by heart before quickly hanging up again. Shit! I did that almost every damn night, too. I didn’t even know if Patty was still alive. You’d think someone would tell me if she wasn’t, but … fuck. I longed to hear her voice, but didn’t know what to say. How do you talk to someone who’s bound and determined to slowly kill herself, despite extensive counseling and numerous intervention attempts? Someone who blames you for the actions of a drunk driver because your son followed in your footsteps?
I surged back onto my feet. Restless, I wandered around the place. It wasn’t large, a bit over 2,000 square feet, but there wasn’t a hell of a lot of furniture to clutter it up, either. Nevertheless, the condo seemed way too damned big right then.
I found myself standing in front of a kitchen cabinet where I kept a small but expensive stock of liquor. The good thing about moderate drinking is you can afford the good stuff, even on my salary. Hell, with all the OT I’d been working, I could afford the great stuff. I reached in, picked up a nearly full bottle of Glenmorangie single malt, and set it on the counter. Reaching over to the freezer, I scooped out some ice and dumped it into a glass, then began to pour myself a healthy shot. And stopped. This wasn’t right, either … I’d promised Sensei I’d clear my head, so that’s exactly what I’d do.
“Fuck it!” I said aloud, startled by the intensity of my voice. Shoving the bottle aside, I ignored the bit I’d already splashed into the glass and walked away.
Back in the living room, I knelt on the floor, closed my eyes, and rested my hands lightly on my lap. I drew a deep breath in through my nose, imagined it swirling around my abdomen, held it for a moment, then gently let it out through my mouth. Straightening my spine, I concentrated on the rhythm, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Breathe, just breathe. There’s nothing but breathing. Slowly my sense of time and place faded away. My mind began to drift. My shoulders started to relax. I could feel the tension begin to float away.
I must have sat there quite a while. Somewhere during the process, a sense of peace descended. For the first time in I didn’t know how long, I felt good. I took a final deep breath before slowly opening my eyes. For a moment I thought I could see my son standing in front of me, looking down with a smile on his face, but that would have been ridiculous. Blinking furiously, I let my eyes get used to the light, and Isaac’s image faded away.
I stood up, stretched luxuriously, and wandered over to the bed. That sense of peace and relaxation remained. For the first time in months, I almost instantly fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
THREE
We sat in the Starbucks parking lot, taking a short break. It had been a long, but uneventful day, a letdown from the Paulo incident earlier in the week. A little caffeine never hurt when one needed a mid-afternoon pick-me-up. Kris rolled his neck to ease the kinks, took a swig of coffee, and glanced to where I lounged in the passenger seat.
“Paulo mouthed off at booking. Word’s all around the precinct about you flashing a bunch of hoods the other night. Damn, I still can’t believe I missed that.” His nose was packed and bandaged, making his words a bit hard to understand, but there was no mistaking the sarcasm.
“It’s called thinking outside the box, asshole! That’s what police work is all about. When you’re all grow’d up, you’ll know that.” I’d been getting shit from just about everyone in the department over that incident. It didn’t help any that a diminutive for Richard was Dick, facilitating tasteless jokes. Nothing I could do but roll with it.
He grinned, flipped me the bird, and changed the subject. “You going to the game Saturday?”
“Absolutely! Same bet as last year?”
“You got it, bro.” In a good mood again, he worked gingerly around the bandage to take another sip.
Saturday wasn’t just a game; it was the game, the Apple Cup. Kris’s Washington State University Cougars pitted on the gridiron against my University of Washington Huskies. He was a couple of years younger than me, so we’d only played one game against each other in college. A slashing, aggressive runner, he’d bowled me over several times that day. But I did manage to keep him out of the end zone on a critical play late in the game that clinched our victory. It was the last game of my senior season and my last play on a football field. Cool memory.
I went to the PD directly after graduation. The better player, he’d gone on to a short NFL career. Drafted by the Denver Broncos, he played a couple of unmemorable seasons as a backup before blowing out his knee during his first start. Unable to fully recover, he’d bitterly abandoned his football career for a job in law enforcement.
Our Cougar/Husky rivalry was as intense as ever some 20 years later. Whoever’s team lost had to wear the winning player’s jersey for a week. In public! I’d rather have shaved my head. Sadly he already did that, one of the reasons we’d made our colors the bet. I was still leading, but he was quickly catching up. My team had sunk into a morass of poor recruiting, a handful of NCAA violations, and worse coaching.
“You know, it’s gonna be two old ladies fighting over a purse this year,” he said sadly.
“Yeah, but we’re still gonna kick your ass.”
“You wish!”
Both teams had gone down hill since our ‘glory’ days, ranking at the bottom of the Pac 10 Conference. But beating the Cougs would more then make up for an otherwise wretched season, and vice versa. My senior season was one of the few years we hadn’t gone on to a bowl game, yet I still savored our Apple Cup success.
“Hey, speaking of the U, did you know another coed disappeared last weekend?” I asked.
Although the University of Washington Police Department sends their recruits through our academy, they’re a separate agency with 50 or so uniformed officers. Alan Meier, the assistant chief, and I trained together at the dojo. I occasionally heard information about cases from Alan before they became public, especially when he needed another perspective on something that was troubling him.
“Really? I didn’t know that. That’d be the third one this month, right?”
“Yup. Not a good thing.” I shook my head sadly.
“No, not a good thing at all. Have they found a body yet?”
“Nope. I think that’s five missing without a trace. One or two might have bailed without telling anyone, but certainly not five. I don’t think the press is on it en masse yet, but I’m sure they soon will be.”
“Damn! I thought that safe schools program was supposed to thwart this sort of thing.” I couldn’t tell if he was being his cynical self or making a serious statement. I was about to ask what he’d meant by that comment when he added, “You think they’ve got a serial killer up there again?”
“Dunno. Sure as hell hope not.” I shuddered. “You know, Ted Bundy went to school at the U. Lived across the street from my old fraternity. My sister’s orthodontist was his roommate for chrissakes. In the ‘70s, I think.”
Bundy was one of the most infamous serial killers in U.S. history. While he confessed to raping and murdering some 30 women before his execution in 1989, his total number of victims was never known. I’d hate to think that some sick motherfucker was following in his footsteps.
Kris was about to respond when a call came over the radio. Silent alarm at a convenience store on Rainier Avenue, a couple miles away. We knew we weren’t the closest car, but given the neighborhood where the store was located, we offered to roll as backup. Dispatch agreed.
The Rainier Valley had evolved in the last dozen years, becoming ‘gentrified,’ as pundits liked to say. Despite the fact that old ladies and young children could safely walk the streets in some places, other areas made seasoned officers think twice about entering alone. We’d just driven into one of them. It looked like a damned war zone. Burned building shells, boarded windows, barbed-wire fences, debris scattered all over; someone should bulldoze the whole damned place like they did at High Point and start over again.
Dispatch reported there were a couple of bad guys holed up inside the store, along with a half dozen civilians. Hostages. But nothing much had happened, yet. We approached with caution, stopping several yards away. Two other squad cars were parked across the sidewalk, one with a bullet hole in the windshield.
Two officers crouched behind their vehicles, weapons drawn. I unlocked the rifle and handed Kris the shotgun. As a department, we’d been outgunned by the bad guys for years before the brass had finally convinced the mayor to pay for some heavy weapons and the training to use them. Jacking a round, I thumbed on the holographic sight, crouched down, and hurried over to the nearest car, rifle cradled in front of me. I gently rested a hand on the closest officer’s shoulder.
“What’ve we got, Charlie?”
Charlie was a big, bald guy, a near mirror image of Kris without the mustache, save chocolate brown, rather then pasty white, skin. When they’d rolled together several years back, we’d called them the ‘Wonder Twins.’ I never learned why, but he and Kris had some sort of falling out and they hadn’t gotten along well for years. They were professionally polite, but avoided each other whenever possible.
“Heya, Sarge,” he replied. “Busted strong-arm job. Couple perps spotted a cruiser driving by, popped off a shot, and dashed back inside. Both armed prob’ly. At least one pistol. No other shots fired, and no one’s injured. Just PO’d about bein’ used for target practice. I’m told by the woman who snuck out the back there’s maybe half a dozen hostages in there with ‘em.”
He gestured toward an elderly Asian lady quietly conversing with an officer half a block away then continued in a calm tone, “We’ve got another car and a couple more uniforms in the alley, so the perps got no way out. It’s been damn quiet for the last few minutes. Orders are to just sit tight, waitin’ for SWAT, unless somethin’ else goes down.”
I nodded. Standard procedure was to wait for the specialists to resolve situations like this, unless an active shooter was involved. Big lesson from Columbine that. Once the shooting starts, there’s no waiting around. You’ve gotta end it before all the hostages are killed. This proved successful at reducing casualties over the years, despite the fact that it put first-responders in extra danger. I had a gift for gab and was a damn good shot for a beat cop, practicing a lot more then our annual recertification required. But I was by no means a skilled hostage negotiator or SWAT team sniper. I was more than happy to keep the perps boxed in, sticking to a backup role.
I filled Kris in while we pulled more tactical gear out of the trunk. Dressed in heavy, military-style vests and ballistic helmets, we headed to the front of the store and waited with the other officers. Charlie gave Kris a friendly nod. He snapped a half salute back, so perhaps they’d reached an understanding recently. A few minutes later a couple of traffic patrol cars showed, blocking off the street to keep passers by out of the way. It was a pretty heavy response, yet one that prudence warranted.
Although the shop’s doors and windows were made of glass, it was impossible to see past the wrought iron bars, neon signs, and posters that papered them over. We had no idea what, if anything, was going on inside. Other than an occasional burst of noise from our radios, we couldn’t hear much, either. We hunkered down and waited. And waited. And then waited some more.
They say cops are overpaid, at least until the shooting starts. Dunno. In some ways, I’d rather be shot at than hang around waiting for something bad to happen. But wait there we did. Despite the chill weather, we sweated in our gear and tried to maintain our highest levels of concentration. It’s easy to be vigilant for a while, but keeping it up over long periods is unbelievably draining. What the hell was taking SWAT so damn long? Glancing at my watch, I discovered that it had only been five minutes since we’d arrived. Damn, it had seemed like a hell of a lot longer.
More time passed. I really wasn’t sure how long; I didn’t want to glance away from the storefront to check. Crouching behind a squad car was getting damned uncomfortable. I stood up slightly, arching my back to stretch out the kinks.
I’d just heard something pop back into alignment when someone grabbed me by the back of the collar and yanked me down to the ground. At the same instant, a shot burst through the window, skipping off the side of the car where I’d been standing a second before. I glanced over to thank Kris, but he was crouched down some five feet away. Before I could solve that puzzle, more shots rang out.
“Fuck, they’re shooting the hostages!” someone yelled. “Go! Go! Go!” The first shot through the window must have been a miss. All the subsequent ones stayed inside the building. As any seasoned officer knows, when you’re hyped on adrenaline and don’t have proper training it’s real damn easy to miss, even at close range. No one cared why everything had suddenly gone to hell. We simply wanted to put a stop to it.
Jumping to my feet, I sped around the side of the car and raced for the door. Bum knee or no, Kris was still the fastest of our group, smashing into the door with his shoulder, and bouncing off it before anyone else could get there. Damn! That must have hurt. Without missing a beat, he lowered his shotgun, blew out the glass, and kicked his way inside. The rest of us poured in, close on his heels.
“Left,” he shouted, spinning to the side, shotgun leading the way. Another uniform, I couldn’t tell who, tore after him.
I yelled, “Right!” Peeling off in that direction around the cash register, I squeezed past a body lying on the ground, taking care not to step on him in case he was still alive. Judging by the smell he almost certainly wasn’t. There’s blood and there’s blood; you never forget the distinctive odor of fatal wounds.
Suddenly I was confronted by a young man standing over a kneeling, terrified oldster. His pistol was pointed sideways, gangsta-style, at his intended victim’s head. Unlike our stark black weapons, he carried a shiny, chrome-plated Colt 1911 semi-automatic.
Time slowed as I watched the kid’s finger tense. Even as he began to pull the trigger, I brought my rifle up. With its holographic sights, I was able to take in the whole tactical scene with both eyes open. There was no one in my way, and no one directly behind the bad guy. I had a clear shot. The second the glowing, red holo dot brushed the thug’s face, I squeezed the trigger, beating him to the shot by a heartbeat.
I’d been crouching slightly at the time, firing at an upward angle. While I didn’t hear the blast or even feel the rifle’s kick, a small hole appeared in the kid’s face. My bullet tore through his upper cheek, drilling clean through his skull to pop through the other side and lodge in the wall behind him. Head snapping back, a fine, pink mist blossomed from the back of his head, followed by a spray of blood and darker matter that seemed to fall in slow motion, painting the wall and floor around him.
As he collapsed, his pistol went off, grazing his intended victim’s hair. Thank God I didn’t see any blood. It must have missed the guy’s scalp. Damn that was close!
I could hear movement behind me as more shots rang out on the far side of the store. Trusting the other officers to watch my back, I swept past a line of kneeling hostages. Most of them were already diving toward the floor. I looked for another target. Nothing. Within maybe two or three seconds, it was over. Both the bad guys were dead. So were three of the hostages, including the poor bastard by the cash register. He wasn’t wearing any sort of uniform or name tag, but I was certain he was the clerk.
Charlie rushed outside, coming back with a med kit. He started administering aid to the victims. Damn, my hands had been rock steady during the shooting. Now they shook uncontrollably as unspent adrenaline coursed through my system. I took a deep breath, held it for a four-count, and exhaled slowly. Breathe in, count to four. Hold, count to four. Breathe out, two, three, four. A few more repetitions and I had my body more or less back under control.
Kris wandered over, blowing out a long breath. He must have been doing the combat breathing exercise, too. “Fuck!”
“Yeah, that pretty much sums it up, doesn’t it?”
I sat in the chief’s office, trying not to fidget. Ray Porter was a good guy, a great guy to be honest. Still he made me nervous in ways I never felt patrolling the streets. Despite the fact we’d attended academy together and both started our careers on the same day, he was more a politician than a police officer these days. Goes with the territory, I guess. He had the press, public at large, city council, civilian oversight board, police union, rank-and-file officers, and a host of other competing interests to mollify on a daily basis. Those facts kept me from envying his position, even a little.
“As far as I’m concerned, it was a good shoot,” Ray was saying. “Totally by the book, Hayes. To your benefit, the whole thing was captured by the store’s security camera. Not quality film, mind you, but complete coverage. The hostages you saved practically worship the ground you guys walk on. That citizen who was about to be executed is a patriarch of the Asian community, well respected by everyone in the area. Well, law-abiding everyones anyway.”
Despite the seriousness of the situation, I snickered.
“There’s a great interview with him printed in the Times today.” He gave me his best fatherly smile. “You should read it—makes you out to be a real hero.”
“Wow, that’s great,” I started to say, more relieved than I cared to admit. He cut me off.
“But, and this is a very important ‘but’ that stays strictly between you, me, and the fencepost, you’re white while the kid you shot was black. African-American to be PC. His relatives are already loading the press with how he was a poor misunderstood youth, turning his life around, and all that sappy bull crap.”
He paused for a moment to let that sink in. “Some reporter, who wasn’t there and doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground, thinks you overreacted with lethal force when a Taser or pepper spray would have sufficed. Hell, dickweed, didn’t even mention that the perp’s gun was stolen or that he had two others on him. The Post Intelligencer printed a scathing editorial calling you, among other things, a, and I quote, ‘narcissistic glory-seeker who demonstrated an unabashed lack of restraint.’ Bottom line, it’s going before the OPA.”
“Shit!”
The OPA, or Office of Professional Accountability, was a civilian review board that reported to the city council. Very political, in my opinion, they didn’t always make decisions based solely on facts and data. I wilted in my chair, not knowing what to say. I was sooo fucking screwed.
“You know I wasn’t looking at his damn skin color, boss. I only noticed his gun!”
“Buck up, Hayes. It’s going to be all right,” he replied. “Everyone’s behind you and Charlie. Management, union, the DA, everyone ... It’s only a few in the press and a handful of so-called community organizers who are on the other side.”
It turned out that Charlie had taken down the second perp. Though Kris had winged him, the medical examiner definitively stated the cause of death as Charlie’s bullet. Since Charlie was an African-American himself, he apparently wasn’t as strongly in the crosshairs as I was.
Son of a bitch! If I’d tried to Taser that little motherfucker, the old man would have died. And I’d have dropped right along with him. There was no way in hell that I could have changed weapons and pulled the trigger that quickly. Shit, I’d replayed the incident in my mind hundreds if not thousands of times. It was a good shoot; my only option given the circumstances. If the damned PC Nazis kept getting in the way of good police work, we’d lose control of the streets. The whole fucking city would look like that godforsaken swath of the Rainier Valley where we’d had the shootout.
I forced my attention back to Ray who was still talking. “It might take a while, but have faith that this will blow over Richard. You’ve got a stellar record and did everything ‘by the book.’ Just get yourself a good lawyer, and it’ll turn out fine.”
He pulled a card out of his Rolodex and slid it across to me. ‘James L. Patterson, attorney at law,’ it read. At least that was a start.
“Thanks, Chief!”
“There’s more,” he said.
“Um,” I started to respond, but he cut me off with a wave.
“Both kids have extensive records, juvie and adult, with BGD ties.” BGD stood for Black Gangster Disciples, not as infamous as the Crips or Bloods, but major players in their own right. Beyond those three, the Hoovers (74 Hoover Criminals) and Sur-13 (Sureños) rounded out the notable street gangs in Seattle, though each had smaller associated sets or cliques. “The gang unit hasn’t heard any substantiated rumors of a revenge hit, at least not yet. But I’d seriously watch your back for a while if I were you. You’ve got a backup weapon, right?”
“Of course,” I replied. “Several, actually.” I owned a couple more Glocks in addition to my duty weapon, which I’d handed back in at the start of my administrative leave, along with a couple of hunting rifles and shotgun. Not an arsenal, but more than sufficient for the moment.
“Good. Keep at least one of them with you at all times. Maybe bring your vest home, too.”
“You’re just a freakin’ ray of sunshine today aren’t you, Chief? Thanks loads!” I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling a migraine coming on.
“Just looking out for the little people.” He grinned. “Now get the hell out of my office. I’ve got real work to do!”
FOUR
Alan and I were performing ‘sticky-hands’ in the dojo. Making pushing and pulling movements with intertwined wrists, we tested each other’s stances. The goal was to increase our sensitivity to an opponent’s movements, striking whenever the other guy was off balance. As I felt him lean a bit too far forward, I smoothly shifted in, set an armbar, and dropped him to his knees.
“Good one, Richard. Nicely done!”
“Thanks,” I replied, helping him up so we could do it again. Realizing what I’d done I winced, glancing over at Sensei, but he hadn’t noticed. ‘What gets trained gets done,’ he always says. It’s a damnably bad habit to help your partner back up to his feet when you might find your self doing the same for an adversary. Mistakes like that don’t end well on the street
“How you holding up?”
“Better than expected, actually.” I had already been cleared by the department’s shrink, surprisingly in only two sessions. I’d testified before the shooting review board, but was still on suspension. Well, ‘paid administrative leave’ anyway. With nothing better to do, I’d been hanging out in the dojo every day of the last week.
“Ducking calls from the press, training my ass off … You know, the usual.” I grinned.
“Glad to hear it, my friend.”
“I’m thinking about another paragliding trip off Tiger Mountain this weekend if the weather holds up. You wanna tag along?” Kris and I had gone gliding together several times. I’d also taught Alan the sport, though he was the least enthusiastic of our trio.
He started to respond, but Sensei cut him off, snapping “Mudakuchi tatakuna! No kuchi waza! Train now! Chat later!” I wasn’t entirely sure what the first thing he said meant, my Japanese was limited, but I knew that kuchi waza meant ‘mouth technique.’ We were being admonished to shut up and train. If there was a motto for Sensei’s dojo, that’d be it.
“Hai, Sensei!” We got back to work.
A couple of hours, later as I was toweling off in the locker room, Alan came over and grabbed a bench next to me. “What are you doing for lunch tomorrow?” he asked.
“No plans at the moment. Shit, I’ve got no plans all week.” I winced, hoping Sensei hadn’t overheard that. Thankfully he wasn’t in the locker room.
“Well, you’ve got some now. I’ve got a favor to ask. Gotta run to an appointment tonight, so I’ll fill you in tomorrow. Meet me at Blue C Sushi in the Village? 1130?”
“Sure, I love that place. You’re paying right?” I asked.
“Good. See you then.”
He was gone before I realized he’d evaded my question.
Blue C was a kaiten sushi place in University Village, a large shopping area adjacent to the campus. Kaiten meant ‘turns,’ a traditionally Japanese conveyor-belt style restaurant where you choose what you want and pay by the plate. Maybe it was decades of immersion in Asian culture via the martial arts. Or perhaps it was simply because we were sick fucks, but Alan and I loved raw fish, seaweed, blazingly hot wasabi horseradish, and other ‘delicacies’ that’d gag most rational adults.
Doors opened at 1100. By half past the hour, the place was already packed. Japanese food must have become trendy when I wasn’t looking. There were no open booths. Fortunately there were a couple of empty chairs together along the back row. We ordered tea and water, grabbed a couple of plates off the conveyor, and began to dig in. Mmmmm, sushi goodness.