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“That doesn’t make you a coward, Newman.”
“What does it make me?” he asked.
“Human.”
17
THE ONLY GOOD thing about the time on the warrant starting the night of the murder was that it convinced Kaitlin and Livingston to help us. They would meet us at the jail after Kaitlin made an impression or copy of the bloody footprints at the house. If they matched, Bobby was a lying bastard and almost certainly guilty, but if they didn’t, then at least our little group would have reasonable doubt. It would take longer to get the judge on the warrant to be on board, but you have to start somewhere.
Duke was still in his vehicle as Newman and I pulled up. Because of the overhead light, we could see him talking on his phone. The driver’s-side door was open already, as if the phone call had caught him in the middle of exiting his car. We parked and walked toward him.
He hit MUTE on the phone and said, “It’s my wife. You two go ahead. Tell Troy that you need your warrant. He said he’d printed it out for you.”
We both nodded and started toward the building, but not before we heard him say, “I’ll be home as soon as I can, honey. I know she’s in pain, but she doesn’t want hospice-level meds yet.”
Newman and I both hurried just a little, as if we’d eavesdropped on something too personal, and I guess we had. I didn’t have kids, but I couldn’t imagine having to watch someone I loved die like that.
Newman paused at the door of the tiny police station. “Jesus, hospice-level meds.”
“I’m not sure what that means,” I said.
He put his hand on the doorknob but didn’t turn it. “It’s when they give them so many pain meds they just sleep pain free until the end. When doctors offer you hospice care, then it’s over. You’re just waiting for the body to give out.”
It sounded like Newman had experienced it personally in some way. I debated whether I should pry or keep to the guy code of never asking about personal stuff. I was still debating when we heard the gunshot. It sounded like it had come from inside the building. Our guns appeared in our hands like magic, and we went through the door toward the gunfire.
18
I WOULD HAVE checked the room as we entered to make sure nothing was hiding behind a desk or something, but Newman ran straight toward the far door and the cells. I stayed at his six because I was his backup, but it was careless, and careless could get us both killed. We had seconds to see that the office area was empty, and then we both went for the door to the cells. Newman didn’t even check if it was locked; he just reared back and kicked the door right next to the doorknob and lock. The door burst inward, because not only hadn’t it been locked, it hadn’t been securely shut, so the door smacked into the wall and came back at us wit
h way too much force. Newman caught it with one arm, and with the other kept his gun pointed into the room. I was at his back with my gun out, pointed at the floor, but the safety was off, finger on the trigger. Shots fired meant “gun safety” was hitting what was shooting at you.
There was a man in the now familiar uniform of the local cops aiming between the bars of a cell. I had a second to notice he was tall, thin, but I was mostly trying to aim around Newman’s body without crossing him with the barrel of my gun. I didn’t even bother to look inside the cage. Whatever had been done was done in that second. There was nothing at the end of the short hallway but the man, shoulders rounded, gun still in hand. It wasn’t pointed at us, but Newman and I were both yelling.
He yelled, “Put the gun down!”
I yelled, “Drop the gun!”
The deputy turned and looked at us. I had a moment to see he was pale, with huge eyes in a face that looked shocked, but his hands with the gun still in them turned with him, and I yelled, “Drop it!”
Newman yelled, “Don’t make us shoot you, Troy. Don’t make us do it!”
I finally went to one knee against the wall opposite the cell, so I had a clear shot at the deputy without endangering Newman or accidentally shooting into the cell. It’d be a bitch to accidentally shoot the person we were trying to save.
If the shooter hadn’t been another cop, I’d have shot him moments before, but then he dropped his gun. The only thing that had saved him was the uniform. Newman kicked the gun toward me. I changed my grip on my gun from two-handed to one- and picked up the dropped gun. Loose guns were bad guns. I clicked the safety on, got to my feet, and moved around so I could keep an eye on the deputy as Newman put him on the ground and secured his hands behind his back.
I heard something behind us, and I had the second gun up and pointed before I could think anything. I just reacted. I even thumbed the safety off, and my finger was on the trigger. I didn’t have time to wonder if Wagner had messed with his trigger pull and lightened it from out-of-the-box standard. If he’d made it a hair trigger, then potentially someone else was about to get shot. I was okay with it, because a cop should have known better than to walk up on people when the guns came out.
Sheriff Leduc put his hands up without me asking; he also stopped moving closer. Good, it would be a shame to have to shoot him in his own jail.
My peripheral vision is above average. I could keep half an eye on Newman kneeling on the deputy and still watch the sheriff. Newman pulled the cuffed man to his feet.
I spoke very carefully, each word as cautious as the touch of my finger on the unfamiliar trigger. “You got that one?”
“I got him,” Newman said.
I turned toward the sheriff, bringing my gun up to bear on him as I lowered Wagner’s gun toward the floor. I took my finger off that trigger but left the safety off. One of his deputies had just shot one of his prisoners in his own jail. It might mean that Duke would be okay with it. Besides, he’d already pointed a gun at me once. I wasn’t going to let him get the drop on me twice.
“Ease down there, Anita,” the sheriff said.
