John Gilstrap - No mercy

Gail was just entering her driveway when her cell phone rang. “Sheriff Bonneville.”

“Afternoon, Sheriff,” said a very cheerful and very southern voice. “This is Max Mentor with the state crime lab. How you doin’?”

Gail smiled. She’d worked with Max a couple of times since her election and always found the experience to be pleasant. “I’ll be better when you guys can give me some hard data.”

Max laughed. “Then I’m about to make your day. You ready to copy?”

Gail opened her notebook to a new page, balanced it on the center console, and clicked her pen. “Couldn’t be readier.”

“Okay, I got info on ground impressions you sent in. Footprints first, because they’re going to be the least help to you. The boot prints are a standard Vibram sole that you can find on any one of dozens of different brands of shoes. Boots, most likely, the sort that you could find in a recreational equipment outfitter.”

“Or at a tactical supply store?”

The pause told her that Max hadn’t considered that. “You mean, gun nut stores? Where you can buy bulletproof vests for hunting? Yeah, I suppose you could buy them there. So, now you’re thinking this guy is a cop?”

“Nah, I’m just thinking out loud. What else do you have?”

“Okay, let’s talk about the tire prints. Somethin’ weird about those, you know? We only got prints. No tracks. It’s like it just appeared there. The tread’s unusual, too-not typical of any car or truck in the database.”

Gail felt an excited flutter in her chest. “Are you thinking helicopter?”

“Bingo. Given the wheelbase and the depth of the depressions relative to the weather conditions, we’re looking at something pretty big.”

“Help me with ‘big,’ Max. We talking Vietnam-era Huey?”

“Oh, God, no. Not that big. Probaby something more like the slick Aerospatial units they’ve got out there now. Besides, Hueys had skids, not tires. I’ve got a buddy of m theory on the dreams, as Dom had his own theory on every aspect of Jonathan’s life: normal people woke up to escape their nightmares; for Jonathan it was the other way around-he sought sleep to avoid the reality of his days.

Tonight, the telephone sounded ultra-amplified, and he knew before he moved that bad news was on the way. Come to think of it, he couldn’t remember a time when a phone call had brought good news. Add the fact that it was the middle of the night, and the sense of dread trebled. As he swung his head to look at the clock, the ghosts of last night’s eighth and ninth beers haunted him with bed-spins. The LED readout burned 9:10 into his retinas. Okay, forget the part about being the middle of the night.

He snatched the phone off its cradle. “This had better be one hell of an emergency,” he grumbled.

It was Venice. “Digger, I’m sorry. I know how hard repentance is on your liver, but I had to call you. The police are looking for you.”

Wrong about the middle of the night, but dead-nuts right about the bad news. “What did I do?” He forced himself to sound even grumpier to cover for the knot that just formed in his gut. As much as he talked bravely to Thomas Hughes about being invisible, he did harbor a special fear of crossing swords with the law.

“You didn’t do anything,” Venice said. “It’s Ellen. They’re at her house, and something bad has happened there.”

As if someone had thrown a switch, Jonathan came completely awake and his head was clear. “What happened to her?”

“I don’t know. They wouldn’t tell me. They called the office looking for you and I told them that I’d be in touch the instant I hung up with them. I have a number for you to call.”

Jonathan swung his feet to the floor and stood. “You do it,” he said. “Call them and tell them that I’m on my way. Without traffic I can be at Ellen’s house in an hour.” He didn’t wait for her to confirm before he dropped the receiver back onto its cradle.

The Rothman home-Ellen’s home-sat on five acres atop a hill in Vienna, Virginia, a tribute to Tibor Rothman’s ego. Serviced by a 300-foot driveway, the 5,000-square-foot colonial was so perfectly proportioned that from the road it looked a fraction of its actual size. It wasn’t until you approached up that long driveway that you saw the grandeur of the place. Every time he saw it, Jonathan couldn’t help but admire the three acres of front lawn-the very lawn that was now packed with all manner of police vehicles, most of them parked in the grass. Closest to the garage, parked on the pavement, was a large van labeled CRIME SCENE UNIT in the distinctive red, white, and blue lettering of the Fairfax County Police Department.

Of the half dozen or so officers milling about, all of them reacted defensively as Jonathan piloted his BMW M6 up the lawn to park near their vehicles. Watching their hands twitch near their sidearms, Jonathan realized that during his days in IraqI’ll bring the detective out to you.”

“She was my wife, Officer. I have a right.”

The cop pointed emphatically at the ground. “Here,” he said.

For the first time, it occurred to Jonathan that he might need a lawyer, that he was very possibly being considered as a suspect in whatever had happened.

A barrel of a man with a huge head and a fleshy face appeared at the front door. He scowled as he listened to the uniformed officer, and he followed the man’s pointing finger to make eye contact with Jonathan. The detective nodded curtly, and walked down the stairs to the front yard. As he closed to within a few feet, he extended his hand. “I’m Detective Weatherby,” he said. There was a humorless intensity about the man that reminded Jonathan of a thousand other pricks he’d met over the years who confused professional intimidation with the need to be an asshole.

Jonathan shook the cop’s hand and wasn’t the least surprised to find that he was of the bone-crushing school of hospitality. “Jonathan Grave. What’s going on here?”

“Are you the husband?”

“Ex. Is Ellen all right?”

“When did you see her last?”

Jonathan felt his blood pressure rising. “Look, Detective, I swear to God I’ll answer any and all questions you may have, but I want to know if she’s hurt.”

Weatherby stewed, and then nodded. “Yes, sir, I’m afraid she is. It appears that someone broke into the house and hurt her very badly.”

Jonathan’s anger transformed to fear. “ How badly?”

“I’m not a doctor. I don’t know how to answer that.”

“She’s alive.”

“Yes.”

“And expected to remain that way?”

Weatherby averted his eyes.

Jonathan’s world spun. “Jesus, what happened to her?”

The detective answered carefully. “She was beaten up pretty bad. The house has been torn apart.”

“What, like she stumbled in on a burglar and he panicked?”

“Actually, no, sir, it was nothing like that at all. To my eye, it appears as though she was targeted specifically, and that the people who did so were looking for something they thought she had.”

Jonathan let the pieces drop. “You’re saying she was tortured?”

Weatherby studied Jonathan’s face. “Yes, sir, that’s exactly what I’m saying. Now, I don’t have any more details, okay? That’s all I know. You’ll have to get the rest from the hospital.”

Jonathan turned back toward his car. “Which hospital?”

“Whoa!” Weatherby commanded. “Not yet. I need to ask you some questions.”

“Am I a suspect?”

“Of course you are. You’re the ex-husband. Next to the current husband, you’re number one on the list. By the way, where is Mr. Rothman?”

At one level, Jonathan admired the cop’s candor. Mostly, though, it annoyed him. “It’s not my turn to watch him.”