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Rocky drew his gun from his holster. “I ain’t no damn mouse,” he muttered, making his way to the shed in the doctor’s backyard with unsteady steps. He half expected to be gunned down before he reached the rusted-out shed. Half expected to be attacked from behind, to feel the bite of a knife against his throat.
But nothing happened and he opened the shed door without incident, peering inside and feeling a small wave of relief when he found what he’d been hoping for.
Bleach, the jug about half full. He took the jug and dumped its contents over the rosebush, rendering any DNA in his vomit useless.
Then he walked to his old Ford truck, tossed the jug in the bed, closed the tailgate, and slid behind the wheel. He’d seen no one lurking in the shadows. Didn’t mean there was nobody there, but he had a feeling that if someone had been there, he wouldn’t be alive to be wondering about them.
He drove for a half hour, pulling over when he reached a point halfway to his own home. Taking the burner from the truck’s glove compartment, he dialed 911, reported the man’s death, and hung up, refusing to give his name.
Driving another five minutes, he slowed the truck on a bridge, rolled the window down, and tossed the burner into the river. Nobody would find it. More than thirty-five years of being a cop had taught him all the best tricks.
He hesitated, thinking of Gabriel. His son would be working, doing what he loved best. Rocky was glad he’d seen him the weekend before, glad he’d hugged him hard when they’d parted. Glad he’d told Gabe that he loved him. Because he had the awful feeling that it would be the last time he did so.
As much as he didn’t want to be the mouse, the cat was powerful, its reach long, its claws sharp. At least they wouldn’t go after Gabe. He’d at least done that part right.
Gabe knew nothing of any of this. He never had. His boy would tell him, “Call the police, Dad!” Because Gabe still thought the cops were the good guys.
Maybe I should have told him the truth. Maybe I should have warned him.
Maybe I should warn him now.
No.He’d done the right thing, keeping Gabe in the dark.
Rocky continued to drive, his thoughts in turmoil. He was half tempted to bypass his own house, the home into which he’d carried Lili over the threshold when they’d been young and carefree newlyweds, the home in which they’d raised their son to be a good man. He was tempted to keep on going, tempted to run.
But to where? There wasn’t anywhere he’d be able to hide.
And what kind of life was that anyway?
But Gabriel...
Rocky’s chest ached at the thought of never seeing his son again. Of not finishing what he’d begun.
Of not getting justice for the real victim of this nightmare.
In the end, he decided to face the inevitable, because running away was not who he was.
Metairie, Louisiana
SUNDAY, JUNE 12, 11:45 P.M.
Pulling into his driveway, Rocky sat looking at his house, thinking about the doctor lying dead on his own kitchen floor.
Don’t let Gabe find me that way. Please.
Hands trembling, he reached for his cell phone, tapping his camera roll and staring at the last photo. Him and Gabe last weekend, standing shoulder to shoulder for the photo. Both smiling.
He traced a fingertip over his son’s face. Everyone said that Gabe resembled him, but all he could see was Lili’s eyes smiling at him. She’d be proud of their boy. So proud. And, should the worst happen, he’d see her again.
The thought made his heart trip. He’d missed her so much, and he was so damn tired. He’d never understood what hell she’d gone through with the chemo, not until he’d started treatment himself.
Damn cancer. Knowing that his time was running out had made him take risks that he never would have taken otherwise. Made him pressure the doctor to meet him, and now the doc was dead.
It’s my fault.Logically he knew that the true fault lay on the killer’s shoulders—or killers’ shoulders. There were probably multiple heads on that hydra. But he’d pressed the issue, threatening to expose the poor doctor. Giving him no choice. He should have been more careful.
He should have done a lot of things that he hadn’t done.
And if “they” came after him? The joke was on them. The doctor had been his last hope. He’d never figure out who “they” were now. He didn’t have the time.
