Rick Mofina - Perfect Grave

After Beale and Pedge left, Reep closed the door.

“Wade, don’t ever embarrass me like that again. When you’re on a story, you call me every hour and tell me what you’ve got.”

“I just got all of this now. Excuse me, but I’ve got to get writing.”

“Hold up. Cassie’s filing some material, I want you to put it into your story and give her credit. I told you to work with her, so put a double byline on top of the story.”

“What’d she get?”

“Some color.”

“I don’t need it. Maybe somebody else can use it. I’m writing news.” Translation: I do not trust her stuff.

Reep stepped close enough for Jason to know that he’d eaten something with garlic today. “You listen to me, smart-ass. You work for me and you’ll do as you’re told. Now shut up and get out of here.”

Cursing under his breath, Jason got coffee, then sat down to finish his story. Halfway through, he detected a trace of perfume.

“There you are,” Cassie Appleton stood next to his desk. “I’ve just sent you my half of our front-page story. I told Eldon that we have to be careful we have our facts straight. See you tomorrow.”

“Right. Bye.”

When he’d finished his story, he opened Cassie’s file. She had five hundred words copied directly from the Web site of the Sisters’ order. Not a single live quote. Not a single news fact. The stuff was not even rewritten into news copy.

It was useless.

Jason didn’t use a single word. He gritted his teeth and his stomach heaved as he typed her name next to his. It was ten minutes before deadline when he filed. Then he reviewed his e-mails and messages to be sure he hadn’t forgotten anything.

His old man.

Fifteen minutes later, Jason was listening to Van Morrison and staring at Seattle’s skyline and the bay as he headed south to the neighborhood where he grew up, at the fringe of South Park.

Driving through it gave him mixed feelings. He knew every building, every weather-worn tree, and every landmark that had been there since he was a kid.

His old man’s truck, the Ford Ranger pickup, was in the driveway. Jason parked his Falcon behind it. There was no response when he knocked on the door but the lights were on inside.

Strange.

Jason found his key and went inside.

“Dad?”

Nothing.

At the kitchen table he found a family photo album. A few ancient snapshots were fanned out on the table, one of Jason, about seven years old with his new red bike. His mom had her arms around him. Their faces were radiant.

There was one of his old man smiling in the uniform of the Seattle Police Department. That was a rare picture. Must’ve been before “the incident” that led him to quit the force after only a few years.

Would Jason ever really know why?

His dad never talked about it

Whatever happened back then had to be the reason his mother walked out on both of them. His old man worked hard to hold on to what was left of his life and in the last few years after he got on with Don Krofton’s private investigation agency, he’d been doing well.

Until now.

He was battling something and he seemed to be losing.

What the hell was it?

Among the items on the table, Jason saw an empty envelope with Krofton’s letterhead. It was recent, according to the postmark.

What was this all about?

Dad, I’m sorry I got tied up.

Jason started calling bars looking for his old man.

T he next morning Henry Wade held the suspect in the sights of his handgun.

Finger on the trigger.

Life and death in a heartbeat. He couldn’t do this. Not again

He had to do it.

All in a heartbeat.

Steady your grip. Focus. Look at the suspect. Is the threat real? The gun is death in your hand. You are going to kill someone.

Don’t shoot or shoot? Is the threat real?

Decide now.

All in a heartbeat you are going to kill someone.

The air exploded.

Henry fired six rounds from his Glock, pressed the release button with his right thumb, ejected the magazine, inserted another one, securing it smoothly with the heel of his left hand before firing six more rounds.

Twelve rounds in under fifteen seconds. The threat was gone.

But his fear wasn’t.

“Outstanding, Henry.” Earl Webb, the firearms instructor, hit the button that retrieved the target. A B-27 silhouette. A man’s upper torso. He assessed the scoring ring. “Nice clustering.” Webb noted Henry’s high score for the speed-loading segment of his firearm’s qualification course.

“Let’s go to the last one we talked about.” Webb affixed the new target, hit the button for the clothesline chain to set it in position at the required distance, then instructed Henry to proceed.

Henry didn’t move.

“Ready, Henry? Same steps. Go any time.”

Henry stared at the target. It was a B-29 silhouette. A man’s upper torso, reduced in size. Fifty feet away. Confronting him at fifty feet. Pulling him back in time, reminding him that the suspect was approximately fifty feet away.

The victim was…

Henry’s scalp tingled.

“Go ahead.” Webb’s thumb was poised on the timer.

He was being tested.

Again.

God help me.

Henry fired six rounds, ejected the magazine, inserted another one, and fired six more, all in less than ten seconds. Webb retrieved the target. Henry’s clustering was even tighter than with the B-27.

As if he was determined to kill something.

“Impressive.” Webb noted the scoring. “That’s it, you’ve completed everything and because of your background and the fact you’re already a licensed PI, I expect you’ll be getting your firearms ticket real soon. Nice work.”

Webb extended his hand. Henry hesitated. What the hell did he have to be happy about? But Webb didn’t know.

No one really did.

Wheeling his pickup from the Washington State Criminal Justice Training Commission, near SeaTac International, Henry could hear the whine of a jet on its landing approach. As it drew closer, its engines screamed overhead like the truth descending upon him. He would be licensed to carry a gun again.

Authorized to take another person’s life.

Are you able to live with that the rest of your life?

In the seat next to him, the pages of his study guide lifted in the breeze.

His nightmare had been resurrected.

Bile surged up the back of his throat. He pulled to the shoulder, slammed on his brakes, got out, doubled over, and vomited. He stayed there until the jet passed and the sky was quiet again.

Back behind the wheel, heading to where he needed to go, Henry dragged his forearm across his mouth. He ached for a drink. He battled the craving. He had to face this head-on and he had to face it sober.

It was that simple.

He’d gone more than two years now without touching alcohol, ever since he almost lost Jason and took early retirement from the brewery. That’s when Don Krofton, an old ex-cop pal, had hired him for his private investigative agency to work as an unarmed private detective.

Unarmed.

That suited Henry just fine.

Jason and Krofton had pulled him from the hell where he’d been trapped for some twenty-five years. Since he started working as a PI, Henry and Jason had grown closer. Sometimes Henry helped him on his stories, sometimes Jason helped him on his cases.

Partners.

Henry cherished what they had but now he feared he could lose it all.

Recently, a couple of the agency’s files involved some unexpected violence, so Krofton ordered all of his investigators to become licensed by the state to carry and use firearms. “No exceptions, Henry,” Krofton told him. “Unless you want to pack it in, and I don’t think you want to do that.”