Midnight Choices. Eileen Wilks
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Duncan shook his head. “We don’t have a lot of crime here, compared to L.A. or Houston. But Highpoint isn’t Mayberry, either. We’ve had two convenience stores hit in the past three weeks.”
Duncan glanced into the 7-11. Lorna was stuffing bills into a narrow white envelope. She had a pimple on her chin and pretty brown eyes bare of makeup. When she bent to slide the envelope through the slot into the safe, her hair fell forward. It was long, brown and shiny clean. She brushed it impatiently behind her ear, revealing a tiny gold earring in the shape of a cross.
The girl—little more than a child herself—had a baby girl waiting at home for her. Duncan looked back at Jeff. “Looks like she follows the rules, doesn’t keep much cash in the register.”
“She doesn’t. But that’s no guarantee.” Jeff peeled the foil from a stick of gum. “I stop by every night and the black-and-whites keep an eye on her when they can. That’s no guarantee, either, but this perp picks his times. He hit the other stores when they were empty except for the clerk. First thing he does is shoot out the security camera. Hits the lens square on, single shot with a .22 handgun.”
Duncan frowned. A .22 pistol was a couple of notches above a water pistol for accuracy. Maybe. “Where’s the camera?”
“Far left corner.”
He glanced back into the store, automatically calculating the angle. “Does he come in with his weapon drawn?”
Jeff shook his head, popped the gum in his mouth. “Draws from inside his jacket as he pushes the door open.”
“Then he’s a helluva shot.” Duncan could have made the shot himself. Not many others could.
“Yeah. He’s good, but jumpy. Killed a dog.”
“A dog?”
“When he was headed out of the last place he hit. A stray came around the corner of the store, startled him. He shot it and ran.” Jeff stuffed the empty gum wrapper in the trash can next to the door. “So we’ve got bullets, but not much more. We know he’s male, around five-seven, average build. He wore jeans, a dark jacket, gloves and a ski mask both times. No skin showed. We don’t know if he’s white, brown, black or yellow with blue polka dots.”
“No one made the vehicle?”
“One of the clerks thinks it was a dark compact, not new. She didn’t get much of a look at it. He makes ’em lie on the floor once they empty the register.”
“Did he…” Duncan stopped, shook his head. Damned if Jeff hadn’t gotten sneakier with his pitch. He’d nearly reeled Duncan in this time, gotten him involved enough to ask questions. “You’ll catch him sooner or later. If this guy was really bright, he wouldn’t be hitting convenience stores. They don’t have much cash.”
“Sooner’s better than later. A jumpy, not-so-bright gunman makes mistakes. People get hurt then.” Jeff started for his car. “You going to let me give you a ride?”
“I need to finish my run.”
Jeff nodded, reached for the handle, then gave Duncan a steady look. “What you’ve been doing—that’s important. No doubt about that. A cop doesn’t get much chance to save the world the way you army types do. Sometimes all we can do is drop in on a nineteen-year-old mother who works nights when she isn’t trying to learn bookkeeping. Maybe that will keep this perp from hitting this store, maybe not. We don’t get a lot of sure things in our line of work.”
Duncan’s mouth quirked up. “I remember when you used to try to get me to volunteer for some damned committee or other. Roped me in a few times, too. If you’d had the good sense to go into the army instead of the police force, you’d be their ace recruiter by now.”
A grin lit Jeff’s face. “I’m getting to you. Duncan, we need you. I know it wouldn’t be fun to be a rookie, not when you’re used to being a big-deal sergeant, but if you take some courses, you can move up quick. The chief’s keen on getting a sharpshooter.”
Duncan’s smile slid away. He gave a single shake of his head that combined refusal and warning.
“Okay, okay.” Jeff held up his hand as if to stop a flow of protests. “But you’ll think about it.”
Duncan watched his friend pull out of the parking lot and didn’t think about anything except whether he needed to stretch again. No, he decided. His muscles were still loose and warm.
He’d just started running again when a shot rang out.
He dropped and rolled, reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there. Then lay on his stomach on the cold concrete, his arm throbbing fiercely. Little by little, understanding seeped in. Along with humiliation.
Not a gunshot. A backfire. From a ’92 Chevy packed front and back with teenage boys, some of whom were staring and laughing. Yeah, pretty funny, all right, he thought as he pushed to his feet and slowly resumed his run. Watching a grown man nearly mess himself because your car backfired would be one hell of a good joke to kids that age.
He concentrated on keeping his shoulders loose as he ran. They had a tendency to tense up when his arm was hurting, which made the jarring worse. The Chevy turned west at the light.
It was a shame Jeff had already driven off. If he’d seen how Duncan reacted under fire these days—or anything that passed, to his screwed-up senses, for being under fire—he sure as hell would drop the subject of Duncan trading one uniform for another when his enlistment was up. Which would happen in two and a half months.
He very carefully didn’t think about that, either.
Ben was sitting in his favorite chair next to the fireplace, which still held the ashes of its last fire. His shoes were on the floor beside the couch, his feet propped on the coffee table. One of his socks had a hole started in the heel. A glass half-filled with bourbon sat on the table beside his feet. He’d poured it after Gwen left, then forgotten it.
He was holding the photograph. It was all he could see, all he could think about, the grinning boy in that picture.
Zachary. His son.
Zachary Van Allen. Not McClain.
The front door opened, then shut. He lifted his head, scowling, and saw Duncan standing in the doorway, staring at him with no expression on his face.
Ben didn’t try to read his brother’s expression. Even as a boy Duncan had been good at tucking everything away out of sight, and the older he’d gotten, the better his poker face became. But he saw the tense way Duncan stood and the stiff way he held his left arm. And he saw his bare head.
“Damnation,” he growled, rising to his feet. “I thought they operated on your arm, not your thick skull, but only an idiot would go running for hours with a half-healed wound. And in this weather, without a hat! I don’t know what they taught you in Special Forces, but a jacket isn’t enough. Half your body heat—”
“Not tonight.” Duncan’s voice was hard. He advanced into the room, voice and body taut, like a big cat ready to strike. “I’m in no mood for your bloody nursemaid act tonight.”
Ben took a deep breath, fighting back a surge of temper. Nagging Duncan to take better care of himself was the wrong way to go about things. He knew that. But in the past Duncan would have greeted Ben’s bossiness with a raised eyebrow, maybe a polite “yes, ma’am” or some other nonsense.
He’d changed. Ben didn’t know what had happened on this last mission, but it had damaged more than Duncan’s arm. “It must be close to freezing out there,” he said in the most reasonable tone he could muster.
“Believe it or not, the army doesn’t make us stay in at night when the weather’s bad. But we aren’t going to talk about my sins tonight. We’re going to talk about yours.” His pause was brief. “Her car is gone.”
Ben’s empty hand closed and opened again. This was going to be hard. “I offered Gwen a room