P Deutermann - The Cat Dancers

“Then I’d recommend you go give this some more thought,” the sheriff said. “And I say that because you’re a cop through and through. A very good one, I might add. I can’t imagine you gardening in the backyard, teaching at the local JC, or selling real estate. You’ve been a cop for a long time, and if you just quit like this, you’re going to wonder who and what the hell you are, and that too often leads to a Smith and Wesson sandwich.”

“I’m not quitting,” Cam said defensively. “I just need some time. And my people deserve a full-time boss, an undistracted lieutenant. That isn’t me right now, and I can’t predict when it will be. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth of it.”

“That woman hated cops,” the sheriff said. “I’m having a hard time reconciling the depth of your feelings with how she treated us. All of us.”

“Maybe that was her public persona, her lawyer act,” Cam said. “That’s what she’d become famous for, so she stuck with it.”

“I didn’t mean to pry,” the sheriff said hastily, putting up his hands. “It is absolutely none of my business.” He paused. “Except when it affects my officers’ performance of duty.”

Cam nodded. Annie’s sudden death most certainly had affected him, although his initial sense of loss was hardening into a cold anger and an even colder determination to find out who’d done this thing. Bobby Lee seemed to read his mind.

“I also have to tell you that you can’t go out and play Lone Ranger here,” he said. “You go on leave of absence, you and the Sheriff’s Office split the blanket, formally and even informally, until you check back in. Your sidearm and credentials stay with me. That’s how it has to be.”

“Yes, of course,” Cam said, telling his first lie of the morning.

The sheriff studied his pad of paper for a long moment. “All right,” he said. “Then I think I will act on your request now. Put it in writing-something simple, no speeches, just say ‘for personal reasons.’ Get it down to me by close of business today.”

“Yes, sir.”

The sheriff hesitated. “You have your own personal weapons at home, right?”

Cam nodded. What cop didn’t?

“Okay, then,” the sheriff said. “Don’t want you naked out there.”

“You think I’ll need weapons?” Cam asked.

The sheriff seemed to pick his words with great care. “If you’re at all right about there being a vigilante group here in town, you might,” he said. “But I’m going to look into that in my own way and in my own time.”

“In other words,” Cam said, “I should watch my back.”

“And your front, Lieutenant.”

As easy as that, Cam thought as he walked back upstairs. But what had the sheriff meant by that last bit-“in my own way and in my own time”? Suddenly, he thought he knew.

By 7:30 that evening, Cam, dressed now in jeans and a sweatshirt, was sitting out on his deck with a scotch, a free agent. The two shepherds were across the creek in the back chasing rabbits up on the abandoned Holcomb farm behind his place. The sheriff had been right about one thing: He’d felt positively naked walking across the parking lot to his car, still in uniform, but without his sidearm, badge, and credentials case. Technically, he remained a Sheriff’s Office employee, but he was definitely no longer an operational cop.

Now for the interesting part, he thought. The sheriff had told him he couldn’t go poking around into the Internet executions case or the bombing incident. Okay, he wasn’t going to do that. The feds had the lead, and they didn’t like outside interference one bit. What he was going to do was look hard at how a few cops might decide to get together and form a vigilante group. And if that was going on, how long had it been going on? He wasn’t breaking any promises. It was more like an academic inquiry. Right.

He scanned the darkened hillside for the mutts and then heard a board on the porch creak behind him. He turned around to find a large man wearing the uniform of a sheriff’s deputy and oversize sunglasses stepping out onto the porch with an equally oversize. 45 in his hand.

“Evening,” Cam said as calmly as he could while keeping his hands visible. He wondered why the deputy was keeping his sunglasses on when it was almost fully dark, but then he realized why when the big man pointed that. 45 at him.

“What the fuck, over?” he said finally.

“Listen to me,” the man said. He had an educated voice, one with a quiet tone of authority. “Your leave of absence? You need to take that on the road. Somewhere far away from here. Europe would be good. The Far East would be even better. But away.” He paused. “You listening, Lieutenant?”

“I understood what you said,” Cam replied, keeping his hands still, even though the nearest weapon was in the front hall closet. “But not why. Who the hell are you? What’s this all about?”

“This is about your going away on a long trip,” the man said, keeping his voice steady, entirely matter-of-fact, as if holding another cop at gunpoint was routine. “You’re rich now, so you can go anywhere you want. An ocean cruise, maybe. A long one-around the world. But mostly you have to leave. And sooner is better than later.”

“And if I don’t?” Cam said.

“Not an option, Lieutenant. You have only two options. One is to leave. The other involves everyone getting into dress uniform, a parade, a bagpiper. I’m sure you get the picture.”

“This is because I suggested that cops might have killed those suspects? Cops doing that electric chair business?”

“They said you were smart. Now prove everybody right. Go away.”

“Who are you guys anyway?”

The man made a click of disappointment. “Now you’re proving everybody wrong. Maybe you’re not smart at all. Think about it, Lieutenant. Use your ass. You’ve got a ton of money coming to you. You don’t have to work anymore. You don’t have to be a cop, get your hands all sticky with the pond slime, sweeping the shit off the streets night after night. You can do anything you want. Go anywhere you want. Get any woman you want. A new woman every night. Get yourself a brand-new Merc, instead of that antique you drive around in these days. The one with the green ignition wires? What do you care about law enforcement in Manceford fucking County anymore?”

“Murder is murder, Sergeant,” Cam said, noticing the stripes for the first time. But he wasn’t from Manceford County-too much belly on him. Bobby Lee would have had this guy going for five-mile runs with him. He also didn’t think the man would just shoot another cop. He’d been sent to warn him off. Sure about that? a little voice in the back of his head asked.

“Murder is what happens to decent human beings, Lieutenant. To individuals in good standing with the rest of the human race. Not to landfill seep like those two assholes.”

“Judge Bellamy was hardly street trash,” Cam said. He wanted to keep the man talking, memorize that voice and soak up what facial features he could see around those glasses. Something about the face was wrong-it was too white, an inside face, not a working deputy sheriff’s face.

“Judge Bellamy was a facilitator, Lieutenant,” the man said. “One of those judges who makes life on the street possible and profitable. She let two confessed murderers walk out of her courtroom, and she was proud of it. And you know what they say about pride, right? By the way, word on the street is that the feds are taking a look at you for the bombing. All that money. That true? They doing that?”

“Who knows,” Cam said, becoming increasingly uneasy. He remembered what he’d said about Will Guthridge and making assumptions about the immunity of cops. “As you can see, I’m still here.”