Jonathon King - Shadow Men

He swung with the right hand I was expecting, throwing his weight behind it and throwing himself off balance. The distance I'd kept made him reach and I slid behind the punch and chucked him with two hands in the shoulder to keep his momentum going. In the ring I would have fired an overhand hook into the back of his ear as he passed. But I just stepped back as his elbow went down on the hood of Richards's car and he regained his balance.

"You want to stick 'assault on a civilian' into the report, too, McCrary? You're a real bright guy."

This time his hands came up in a real fighter's pose and there was a calculated rage in his eyes. But like most amateurs, he carried his right fist too low, and a combination of calculated punches was already clicking in my muscles when I heard a metallic snap and the groan of hinges behind me. I saw McCrary's eyes change.

"You're a solid asshole, McCrary. Back off! Now!"

I took a step back out of his range and cut my eyes over to the sight of Richards, her 9 mm extended in both hands, the bead on McCrary's chest.

He opened his hands first, and then his mouth as he stepped back.

"OK. OK. Shit. OK," he stammered, and I watched the emotion flush out of his face.

"You're out of fucking control, Officer," Richards barked, and McCrary nodded his head and showed her his palms. He was breathing hard. We were all breathing hard.

"OK. OK. Look, I'm sorry," he said, visibly gathering himself. But Richards did not lower her gun.

"None of that sorry shit, McCrary," she snapped back at him. "That doesn't wash with me. You've assaulted two of my guests on my private property. I have already cut you way too much of a break by not calling this in and having you cuffed in the street. You will back off and leave the premises right now, and you'd better have a long, hard talk with your sergeant tonight, McCrary. Understand?"

"OK. OK. Fine. Look. Just put the weapon down, OK? Look…"

"Now!" snapped Richards, cutting him off.

McCrary may not have had a full appreciation for Richards's limits, but I had witnessed her pull a trigger, and I had seen the result.

"OK. OK," he said, and this time he began to step back. I watched him nodding his head in acquiescence, but I also picked up a flicker of sharp light in his eyes. Richards lowered her gun but did not move as we watched him get into the Trans Am, back out and, maybe to his credit, or maybe not, pull away slowly and disappear down the street.

Richards was now looking down at the ground, the gun hanging from her fingers.

"How you doin'?" I said, and she looked up at me.

"Just swell. You?"

"A little wired," I said. "You know, a little macho interruptus."

"Can't let you boys have all the fun," she said, but the joke was forced.

"You think it was a good idea not to just have patrol come pick him up?" I said.

"What? And have his boys come over and slap him on the back and tell him to chill and take him out for a few beers and make sure nothing gets written up?"

There wasn't much I could say. I'd seen it work that way myself.

"No. I called his sergeant and then the captain. You start working up the chain of command and those guys aren't going to swallow a black mark on their own jacket for the sake of some dipshit patrol officer."

"Yeah, well, you hope not," I said, and that's when she finally looked into my eyes and seemed to click over to who she was talking to and the background my father's story brought with it.

"You hungry after all that, Freeman?" she said, changing her voice. I followed her through the gate and relocked it behind us. When we walked through the back French doors, she quietly put her gun into a kitchen drawer and slid it shut. There were a couple of lamps lit deep in the living room and sitting on the couch with her legs curled up under her, clutching a pillow to her chest, was a woman with long, strawberry-blond hair. I balked at the sight and the memory that jumped into my head. Richards crossed the room and sat down beside the woman, and they talked softly to each other. I stood at the kitchen counter letting the remnants of the driveway adrenaline leach away and eyeing the automatic coffeepot in the corner. There were several boxes of Chinese food lined up and untouched on the counter.

"Max."

I put on a pleasant face and walked out for introductions.

"Max, this is Kathleen Harris."

"A pleasure," I said, taking the woman's hand.

She stood and looked a bit taller than Richards, and bigger- boned, solid, like a basketball or lacrosse player. Her grip was surprisingly strong.

"Nice to meet you," she said, looking me directly in the face. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but she did not look away until she added, "I'm sorry about all that," nodding her head to indicate the driveway. She wasn't wearing any makeup, and there was a spray of freckles across her nose and cheekbones. Country girl, I thought.

"Nothing for you to be sorry about," I said, and left it alone.

Richards warmed up the Chinese and I squeezed past her and made the coffee. The three of us then sat at the low coffee table in the living room, and I told Harris the impersonal side of my life as a Philly cop. We all ended up swapping stories about academy training, rookie assignments, embarrassments on the job and the various criminal sideshows we'd run into over the years.

Richards told the story about the bank heist where the mastermind wrote the stickup note on the back of his own overdue electric bill and the cops were waiting at his house when he showed up with the loot. We were all shaking our heads over Harris's "ass-man" story, about the Middle Eastern guy who was using a home remedy for hemorrhoids during the anthrax scare. When he showed up at the E.R with a bottle of white powder lodged up his rectum, the yet- unknown concoction of powdered laxative, talcum and baking soda had a dozen cops, hazardous material firemen and federal agents scrambling for hours. Harris was a smart cop, an intelligent, driven, strong woman. She was attractive enough to have dealt with men in social situations. She was experienced enough to have run into plenty of jerks. She forced you to kick out the false stereotype of abused women as so weak, mousy and dependent that they'd put up with it just to hold on to a man, even if he was a shit. The "just leave him" solution does not factor in the unknowable ways of the heart and each person's understanding of love.

When we were done eating, they gathered up the leftovers and I went outside to get my bag out of the truck. I shut off the overhead light in the cab as I went through the bag, unwrapped my Glock and snapped a loaded clip into place. I checked the safety and slipped the gun back in under a fold of clean clothes. I closed and locked the truck and then stood in the darkness, listening, checking both ends of the street. Everyone in this house had seen people at their worst under stress. No one knew what McCrary might do if he felt his back was up against it, if his career and his future were threatened. A lot less can kick a guy over the edge. I was thinking worst-case scenario again. It was a bad habit I wished I could kick.

Back inside, Richards slid a videotape in and the three of us watched a movie called Meet Joe Black. Harris fell asleep on the couch at about the point where Anthony Hopkins's millionaire was explaining life to Brad Pitt, who was playing the role of Death, and Richards punched the TV off. We went outside onto the patio and sat in the hammock. There was no breeze, and the smell of night- blooming flowers hung in the thick humidity. I could hear traffic moving along the streets in the general stillness, but chose to ignore it. Richards's warm skin was against my own, and she was staring up into the night sky.

"You think I should have had him arrested, don't you?" she said.