| Ashes to ashes...
Arlo Grimm finished cleaning, oiling and loading
his gun, then set it on the kitchen table, giving it an easy spin. He watched
the weapon revolve, his stare growing distant, his mind wandering.
The gun, a memento from his thirty years on the
force, was an old fashioned snub-nosed .38. Upon retirement, two years ago,
he had stuffed it in a drawer, thinking he'd never have to use it
again.
He damn near laughed, though he sure as hell saw
no humor in the situation.
Because now he had to use it again, didn't he?
Because now his Bobby was dead and he needed to know why-the real reason
why.
Dust to dust...
The minister's words drummed in his head and scattered
images played in his mind: a bleak, mold-colored afternoon sky, the mist-shrouded
cemetery, the sobering sight of a coffin being lowered into a hungry grave.
He watched his Bobby, his youngest son, being laid to rest while blue-uniformed
policemen stood by like grim-faced wooden soldiers.
"I'm sorry," Chief Bradford said, laying a hand
on Arlo's shoulder. Bradford, a husky gray-haired man of about fifty, had
been Chief for only six months; he hadn't really known Bobby, known what
a good cop Arlo's son had been.
"He shouldn't be dead." Emotion tightened Arlo's
throat. "I taught him better than that."
The chief frowned and for a moment Arlo saw a glint
of-what? coldness? in the man's eyes. An uncaring expression that said being
a cop was just a damn job and sometimes people lost their lives in the name
of duty, even people you loved.
So what? that look said.
Arlo's belly tightened with a mounting dislike
for the man.
"Look..." The chief tried to feign sympathy but
missed the mark. "He was involved in a dangerous case. He got too close to
something. Somewhere along the way he made a serious error in judgment and
paid for it. You can't bring him back."
Arlo let out a disgusted sound. "You didn't lose
a son, Bradford. Maybe I can't bring him back but I can't just let it go
either. I've done that too many times in the past." Not waiting for an answer,
Arlo turned and walked towards his car, a weight of sorrow crushing his soul.
Nobody cared. Nobody gave a damn. Why had he ever bothered becoming a cop
at all? What the hell was the use of it? You just lost people you loved and
nothing was worth that price.
"Leave it alone, Grimm," he heard Bradford call
out behind him. "You're not on the force anymore. Things have changed. It
was a simple drug bust gone wrong. He's dead-live with it."
Arlo uttered a vapid laugh and said under his breath,
"Bradford, you're a cold-hearted prick."
As the revolver stopped spinning, Arlo came out
of his reverie.
Bobby was dead. But he'd be damned if he were just
going to "live" with it. Even if it meant blowing away every junkie in New
Salem, he'd find the person responsible.
Arlo ran a hand through his hair and felt tears
well in his eyes. Bobby had been his pride. After Arlo's wife was killed-the
result of his own "error in judgment"-his older son, David, had never forgiven
him and had walked out of his life completely. He supposed he couldn't blame
David entirely for that, because, hell, he had never forgiven himself either.
Taking the coward's way out, he'd just retired and let it eat away his insides.
He had let David-and himself-down. He'd be damned if he'd let Bobby down,
too.
He had enough guilt to carry around.
Pushing himself away from the table, he stood.
Dressed only in a T-shirt and boxer shorts, he'd been sitting at the table
for better than an hour, staring at his gun, wondering if ignoring Bradford
and going after Bobby's killers was the right decision, finally deciding
it was. He recalled a time when he would have let the police do their jobs
and resigned himself to the inevitable: his son was gone and nothing on Earth
would bring him back or ease the terrible sense of loss that would haunt
him for the rest of his days. But not this time. Live with it? Like Hell
he would!
Depression gripping him, he went to the living
room and bent over an antique cedar chest that used to belong to his wife.
Opening it, he pulled out an old bulletproof vest, another souvenir from
his days on the force. He stared at it a moment, dragging his fingers over
the rough material. The vest had saved his life once, stopping a bullet that
would have gone through his heart. He'd survived with a broken rib and one
hell of a bruise, but that was a small price to pay for life. He let out
a humorless laugh. Funny, he had thought those days of getting shot at were
over, nothing more than war stories he planned to someday tell his grandchildren.
That wouldn't happen now, though. Bobby's killer had taken more than his
son; he'd taken his future.
He straightened and strapped on the vest, its bulkiness
vaguely uncomfortable and alien. For a moment standing in the dull lamplight,
he took slow deep breaths, a ghost of doubt entering his mind.
You're too old for this Arlo. You'll only get
yourself killed this time.
Hell, did it matter?
With a sigh, he went to the couch where he had
laid out his clothes-khaki trousers and a large L.L. Bean pullover shirt
that barely fit over the vest. A mild pounding took his heart as adrenaline
trickled into his veins.
It all comes back, doesn't it, Arlo? It all
comes back. You were a fool to think you could escape it.
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