Linda Castillo - Sworn to Silence

John hit the door with both hands, sent it flying open. It banged against the wall hard enough to rattle the framed picture of the attorney general in the hall. Keyboards fell silent. Heads swung his way. Pretty administrative assistants. A field agent holding a Krispy Kreme doughnut. The mail guy with his cart piled high with envelopes. Their expressions were wary, as if they expected John to pull out his sidearm and go postal. A little afternoon entertainment to go with their lattes and Diet Cokes. High drama on the fourteenth floor. Break out the fucking popcorn.

John felt the eyes burning into him as he strode toward his office and yanked open the door. Inside, he looked around, wondering what the hell he was doing. He should have taken the offer. He should have stayed calm. Now, if Rummel had his way, they were going to fire him. God knows he’d given them cause. Liquid lunches. Lost afternoons. That was when he bothered to show up at all. His penchant for prescription drugs was just the icing on the cake.

But God help him, he didn’t know what he’d do without the drugs. Didn’t know how he’d get through the day or God forbid a whole goddamn night. Talk about a clusterfuck.

He crossed to the window behind his desk and stared out at the traffic on Broad Street fourteen stories below. Not for the first time, the thought of ending it all flitted through his mind. He could go home. Have a couple of drinks. Work up the courage. Be done with it. But while John was squarely at the bottom of the barrel, he wasn’t so far gone that he could blow his brains out.

Not yet, anyway.

Sighing, he turned from the window and slid into the chair behind his desk. He thought about Nancy and Donna and Kelly, and shame for what he’d become cut him. The urge to pull out the photos was strong, but he resisted. Seeing their faces didn’t make him feel any better. He couldn’t remember them the way they’d been. When he thought of his wife and two little girls, he saw them the way they’d been on the dreadful night he’d found them . . .

A soft rap on the door drew him from dark thoughts. “It’s open.”

McNinch stepped into his office, his expression contrite. “Sorry about what happened in there.”

“Par for the course.”

“Rummel knows you’re a good agent.”

“Rummel doesn’t know shit about me.”

McNinch slid into the visitor chair and pretended to be interested in the plaques, commendations and framed diploma on the wall. “It was a good deal,” he said after a moment.

“I’m not ready to retire.”

“There are a lot of things you could do, John. Things with less stress.”

The smile felt brittle on his face. “You mean like a rent-a-cop?”

McNinch frowned. “Hell, I don’t know. Private detective. Friend of mine from Houston, a former cop, went into corporate security for a major pizza company chain. Draws a decent salary. Another guy I know is now a Justice of the Peace.”

“Good for them.”

“You gotta do something, man. Rummel wants you gone. He’s like a dog and you’re the fucking bone. At the moment, you have a choice as to how you walk out that door. In six months, you may not have that luxury.”

John gave him a hard look. “I wouldn’t call any of this a luxury.”

“Hey, man, I know you got a tough break—”

“I didn’t have a tough break,” he snapped. “For chrissake, just say it. Stop with the fucking euphemisms.”

Grimacing, Denny looked down at his hands. “I’m on your side.”

“You’re on whatever side is convenient. But I get it, Denny. I’ve been around long enough to know how it works.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

Rising, the other man started toward the door.

John leaned back in his chair and watched him go. When the door clicked shut, he opened his pencil drawer and pulled out the flask, the silver finish tarnished from use. The irony that it had been a gift from his wife never ceased to give him pause every time he took a drink.

Snagging his briefcase, he set it on his lap and snapped it open. He dug into the side pocket. Relief swept through him when his fingers closed around the prescription bottle. John hated what he’d become. A sick parody of the man he’d once been. A fucking junkie. Everything he despised. Weak. Dependent. Pathetic. He wanted to blame it on the doctors. After all, it was they who’d so eagerly prescribed. But two years ago, John had been a basket case. A man truly at the end of his rope. Flirting with thoughts of suicide. Going so far as to put the gun in his mouth. He’d tasted the gun oil and his own fear, felt the cold steel rattle against his teeth.

Popping the cap, he tapped out two Xanax and one Valium. He wasn’t supposed to take them together, but he’d experimented and discovered through trial and error a cocktail of pills that provided what he needed to get through the day.

He pulled out the framed photograph and blew off the paper dust and pencil shavings. His late wife, Nancy, and his two little girls, Donna and Kelly, smiled at him as if they didn’t have a care in the world. Looking at them never got any easier. He should have been able to protect them.

Propping the frame on his desk, he tossed the pills into his mouth and raised the flask. “Here’s to you, Nancy,” he whispered and washed them down with eighty-proof whiskey.

CHAPTER 8

I arrive at the station to find all six parking spaces taken, including mine. I’m tempted to ticket the driver, but luckily for them I have other priorities. A Crown Vic with all the trimmings tells me the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department has arrived on the scene. I need all the help I can get, but I don’t want to get into a pissing contest over jurisdiction because Sheriff Nathan Detrick has his mind set on winning reelection next fall.

I park next to a fire hydrant and start for the front door. The noise level inside rivals a high school cafeteria at lunchtime. At the dispatch station, Lois looks as frazzled as her overprocessed hair. Hovering over her is a middle-aged woman in a pink parka and big pearl earrings. I silently groan when, upon closer scrutiny, I realize the woman is Janine Fourman.

Janine is the president of the Painters Mill Ladies Club, owner of Carriage Stop Country Store on the traffic circle and the Tea and Candle Shop on Sixth Street. She’s a member of the town council, a founding member of the Historical Society, a professional busybody and instigator of all that is rumor.

Glock and a muscle-bound Holmes County Sheriff’s deputy glance up from their conversation. Glock gives me a covert wink, and I know he’s relayed the message I want to the deputy: Help us, but don’t try to steal the show.

The deputy gives me a once-over—as if expecting a plain woman in a kapp and practical shoes—and extends his hand as I approach. “I’m Deputy Hicks.”

He’s a stout chap with beefy arms and a neck as thick as a telephone pole. I’ve met him at some point, but for the life of me I can’t remember the circumstance. I shake his hand, noticing the sweaty palm and overtight grip. “Thanks for coming.”

“Sheriff Detrick wanted me to let you know we’re here to assist if you need us.”

“I appreciate the offer.”

He looks at Glock as if they’re best buds. “Officer Rupert was just filling me in on the case. Hell of a damn thing.”

I think of Belinda Horner. “Tough on the family.”

“You got a suspect yet?”

“We’re running some background checks. Waiting for the autopsy and the lab results.”

“Do you think it’s the same guy as before?”

I look around, aware that the reception area has fallen silent. People are listening, watching, their eyes alight with the anticipation of news. Details to titillate the dark side of their imaginations. Reassurances to calm their fears so they can get on with their lives without worrying about a madman running amok in their town.