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  Abe turned and started walking towards the Johnson’s. Before Mark closed the door behind him, he heard Abe on the phone, “I live at five oh five East Eighteenth Street. There are men in my house…I think they hurt my mom.” The door clicked shut.

  Mark took a deep breath and glanced up the stairs. There was no noise except for a nervous whining coming from Zeke’s crate. Creeping into the kitchen, he spotted the lanky shepherd shuffling nervously inside his crate.

  If those psychotic bastards broke in, they were after him. They’d hurt Abe and Lisa if they could probably kill them, but they weren’t the target, which meant they were waiting for him. Mark bent next to the crate and unlatched Zeke's door. “It’s okay, Zeke,” he whispered. “Yeah, that’s a good boy.” He kept his voice low and calm.

  The dog scrambled out of the cage and would have made a dash for the stairs if Mark hadn’t grabbed his collar. Zeke strained at the leather restraint, a growl rumbling in his throat.

  “Come on, boy,” Mark said. “Let’s go get Lisa.”

  He slid through the kitchen, avoiding the overturned pans and shattered dishes until he crouched at the foot of the stairs his back to the wall. He risked a glance into the stairwell but saw nothing. For a moment, he debated calling out to the killers. Maybe turn this into a negotiation.

  However, Mark knew these guys, especially Jaxxon Cates. The man was completely insane. With him, there would be no negotiation except at the business end of a gun. He steeled himself and swung around the corner, taking the first two steps in one bound. Zeke strained against his grip, his low rumbling growl swelling into a furious howl.

  Mark let go of the dog’s collar. He felt a twinge of guilt using him for bait, but deep down he didn’t think Zeke would mind. Like him, Zeke would do anything to safeguard his family.

  He waited for the animal to clear the top step then propelled himself upwards. As soon as Zeke vanished into the second story hall, there was a loud bang. A vicious snarl followed, then a shout of pain and a cry for help. By the time Mark reached the landing, there were two more shots and a dog's yelp, but the savage snarls and ripping sounds of Zeke's attack continued.

  Reaching the landing, the first thing Mark noted was Zeke and a ponytailed man rolling on the floor near the master bedroom door. The man held a nickel-plated revolver in his right hand, but Zeke had him straddled, his jaws clamped like a vise on the man’s wrist. Hanging out the bedroom door, sighting down the barrel of a black semi-auto pistol, was the bald, grinning visage of Jaxxon Cates.

  “Rot in hell, Boyd,” Cates called. Before the man’s face vanished behind the orange-red flames of a muzzle flash, he heard Lisa’s cry of “Nooo!”

  Cates’ bullet tore past Mark's ear so close the heat seared the skin. Mark raised his own weapon, but Cates was gone. The piece of shit had let his buddy go down so he could take an assassination shot then drop out of sight behind the wall.

  Like any experienced cop, Mark knew the ballistic capabilities of the .40 caliber rounds kicked out by the diminutive Glock he held in his hand. A couple inches of drywall or a 2x4 weren’t going to slow down the 1200 feet per second hollow points the gun spit out. But what about Lisa? He was firing blind, what if he hit her? He took aim at the spot in the wall where Cates must be and pulled the trigger. He knew he was taking a risk, but Lisa’s call of protest sounded distant, like it came from deeper inside the room. He fired four times, spacing out the shots to cover all possibilities of where the man might be.

  On the third shot, he heard Cates grunt and a body hit the floor. Striding quickly along the hall, Mark paused long enough to stare down at Carl Brown’s panicked face before putting a bullet in his forehead, then without hesitation, he sprang into the bedroom, gun raised. He was in time to spot Cates dragging Lisa into the bathroom. She looked at him with wide, terrified eyes, her mouth forming a cry for help before Cates slammed the door and cut her off.

  Zeke raced past sniffing along the thick trail of Cates’s blood streaming across the carpeted floor and terminating at the bathroom door. Outside, the wail of sirens grew. Now he’d be forced to negotiate with Cates, have to convince a psychopath not to kill.

  “Cates,” Mark called. “This doesn’t have to end bad for you.” He moved quietly across the room and crouched beside the dresser. It didn’t offer much cover if Cates came out shooting, but it was something.

  Cates’ derisive laugh echoed from behind the bathroom door. “Really? How do you figure that, Boyd? I broke into a cop’s house and raped his wife. You think I’m gonna walk out of this alive?

  Raped? Mark felt like he’d been punched in the gut. His soul mate brutalized at the hands of this…this filth. He no longer just wanted to just get Lisa out, he wanted to feel his hands around Cates’s throat, feel his fingers dig into the flesh, rip out his throat, taste his blood.

  He shook his head. Thoughts like that weren’t going to save Lisa. He had to stay calm, focused. He was a cop, God damn it, he needed to act like one.

  “I said it Cates and I mean it. You can walk out of this alive. I won’t lie, you’ll see prison time but you’ll eventually see the outside again. You know how the system works.”

  He heard the screech of tires, the slam of car doors. “Come on Cates. Let’s talk this out.”

  There was silence for several seconds. Then the sound of the front door slamming open and a voice calling out. “Alsuma Police! Detective Boyd, you in here?”

  Mark recognized the voice. It was his old squad mate, Lane White. “Lane, I’m upstairs.”

  Three shots rang out from inside the bathroom, the drywall dust exploding into the air as bullets whizzed past. One of them slammed into the dresser and peppered him with splinters.

  “Did I get’ya?” Cates laughed. His mirthful jibe slipping into a series of hacking coughs.

  Inside the bathroom, Cates cleared his throat and spat. “Well, it doesn’t look like I’m gonna be spending time in prison after all, Boyd. I think you tagged me with that lucky ass shot through the wall. I’m startin’ ta feel a little light headed.”

  “Come on Cates,” Mark said. He could feel the killer slipping away. He crept closer, his hand squeezing the pistol's grip.

  Behind him, Lane White stepped through the opening, gun drawn. Lane was short and balding with a barrel chest and flinty dark eyes. Mark pointed to the bathroom.

  “One guy, armed,” he whispered. “He’s got Lisa.”

  A second cop snuck in behind the first, then a third.

  “Has the cavalry arrived yet?” Cates called. His voice was slow now, his words slurred. “Looks like… it’s… game over.”

  “You’re not an animal, Cates. We can work this out,” Mark said. He knew if Lisa stood a chance he’d have to make his move. Kick the door and pray for the best.

  “We’ve all got the beast inside us, Boyd. Even you.”

  Mark took another step. He signaled he was going to kick the door. Lane moved up beside him and nodded.

  “But before I go," Cates called. "I want to leave you…with a little …present.”

  Mark raised his leg, his foot impacting the door the same instant a shot rang out inside the bathroom.

  Cates was sitting on the toilet, Lisa crouched on the ground before him; both faced the open door. Lisa’s head was cocked to one side her eyes staring up blankly, a crimson stain coloring the front of her shirt. In slow motion, her body tumbled forward her face slamming the floor with a hollow thud.

  In his hand, Cates held a black pistol, a curl of smoke rising from the barrel. He stared at Mark, a twisted gleam in his eye. Then Mark pulled the trigger. Cates was catapulted backward a black hole appearing in his throat, a splash of red painting the shower wall. Then a second hole appeared in his cheek, his eye exploding outward.

  Mark realized Lane was shooting beside him. But there was no sound, only a high-pitched hum that sang through his bones like a saw, swallowing every noise.

  The next minutes passed in a blur. Not sure how he go
t there or who carried her, Mark found himself in the bedroom; Lisa lay on the mattress. The exit wound from her chest was the size of a golf ball, her shirt torn and caked in gore.

  He remembered doing CPR, the taste of blood thick and metallic in his mouth. Then a swirl of activity; Cops and firemen; Ambulance attendants with questions. Is your wife allergic to anything? Does she have a medical condition?

  He had to clear his head. Had to think. “No, no. No allergies, no medical condition.” He tried to see what the medics were doing but Lane pulled him away.

  “Let ’em work pal. You cain’t help. It’s in Gods’ hands now.” He turned Mark towards the stairs. “Abe needs ya. He’s still next door.”

  Mark took one more look at Lisa, her head forced back, tubes protruding from her mouth. He tried to convince himself she’d be okay, but he’d stood beside scenes like this a hundred times. He could tell the four medics working on her were desperate. He knew what the single, high-pitched whine of the heart monitor meant. He’d seen the ripped flesh where the bullet left her body.

  The medics lifted her onto the gurney and rolled her into the hall, one puffing away on a ventilator bag as they wheeled past. In the midst of that surreal instant, the thing that stuck in Mark's mind wasn't the smell of blood and gun smoke; it wasn't the noise of a dozen voices filling the air or Zeke's worried barks from downstairs. It was the squeaking wheel on the gurney. Scrreeek…click…scrreek...click. All the way to the street where they bundled the love of his life into an ambulance.

  Mark glanced into Lane’s eyes, a rueful smile crossing his old friend’s face. It was as if he read the conflict in Mark’s soul. Do I go with my wife or find my son?

  “Go with Lisa,” Lane said. “I’ll make sure Abe’s okay. I’ll get ‘em from the neighbors and bring him to the hospital.”

  Lane laid a hand on Mark’s shoulder and guided him towards the ambulance. “Thanks,” Mark croaked. His eyes flooded with tears as he struggled for something to say.

  “Just go,” Lane said. “They're both going to be fine.”

  Chapter 3

  Dr. Angela Macon’s inner office was much the same as any doctor’s office Mark had ever seen; the ubiquitous mahogany desk, the tall-backed chair behind, the wall of oak framed diplomas, a potted plant resting tastefully atop an antique side table and two comfy chairs positioned before the doctor’s desk.

  He squirmed in the leather seat as Dr. Macon opened the door and stepped in. “Thanks for coming by, Detective Boyd,” Although her hand was small and thin in Mark’s grip, her handshake was firm and warm. “I’m glad you could take the time to meet with me.” She moved around the desk and dropped into the plush chair.

  Brushing back a lock of long, brown hair she adjusted her glasses and considered a thick folder lying in the center of her desk. “Now I hear you’re pulling Abe out of treatment.” She opened the folder and leaned above it, elbows on the desk as if defending its contents from attack.

  Mark cleared his throat. “Yeah, that’s right, doc. I’ve decided to retire from the department.” He crossed his legs and leaned back. “We’re going to sell the house and buy a place out in the country.”

  “Ah,” she steepled her finger and studied him with sharp brown eyes. “So, you’re just changing doctors, not terminating therapy?”

  Mark grimaced and sat up. He’d anticipated resistance to halting Abe’s sessions. He didn’t need to be told what was best for his son, but he was sure Macon was about to do it anyway.

  “Are you sure that’s wise?” she asked. She pulled a sheet of paper from the folder and examined it before closing the folder and shoving it to the edge of the desk. “Abe is a resilient young man, and he’s made great strides in the eighteen months since his mother’s murder.” She removed her glasses and folded them carefully before placing them atop the folder. “But Abe’s got a very long way to go before he’s better. I won’t say cured because he’ll always carry the blame of his mother’s death, the trauma of his encounter, but he’s still a very troubled young man.”

  Mark nodded, acknowledging her words. “I understand that,” he said. “But I believe Abe needs time to be a boy.” His gaze shifted to the diplomas on the wall trying to figure how best to present his ideas without sounding like a fool, or worse, a bad father. “I think Abe needs to quit focusing on all the bad. I don’t mean to say forget it, but all he does is talk about his sessions, how he’s working through this or confronting his feelings of guilt about that.”

  “That’s part of the healing process,” Macon interrupted. “Those are the kind of things we want Abe to discuss. We don’t want him bundling up his emotions or sealing over his pain.”

  “I get that,” Mark said. “But he’s so focused on working through his issues that he’s forgotten how to be a kid.” Was this the right thing to do? Mark stood up, paced the confined space behind the chairs. He’d mulled this decision a thousand times; he believed he was making the right choice. Now, confronted with Dr. Macon’s doubts, his own misgivings grew as well. He stepped to the picture window and gazed across the manicured lawn and fountain.

  “You see, Doc. I grew up in the country. On my grandparent’s farm.” He turned and faced Macon, the sunlight streaming over his shoulder. “There was clean air, and creeks to play in, frogs to catch. I went hunting with my grandfather in the fall and helped my grandma collect eggs for breakfast in the morning. We tilled the earth and learned the slow cycle of the seasons.” The memory of those good times, the verbalizing of all that was wonderful and relaxing with such a simple life strengthened his resolve. He strolled to the chair and sat down.

  “That’s the life I want for Abe. One where he learns his place in the natural scheme.” He waved a hand towards the window and the faint traffic noise beyond. “Not this, congested, fast-paced city life. Time spent in nature will heal my boy more than any amount of sessions or treatments.”

  Macon ran a palm across her chin her eyes resting for a moment on the thick folder before they rose and met Mark’s gaze. “Well, I wouldn’t normally agree with removing a child like Abe from treatment. But there are many convincing studies on the health benefits of rural life. Lower stress levels being among the most prominent advantages.” Her chair creaked as she leaned back. “In the last year, Abe’s come a long way in accepting not only the death of his mother but the fact he was not responsible.”

  Her eyes shifted momentarily to the wall clock, then she smiled as if acknowledging not necessarily the merits of Mark’s decision but at least its passion. “However, I’d like you to consider the possibility of limited sessions. Maybe quarterly or monthly visits.”

  She replaced the paper inside the folder and leaned onto her elbow. “Tell me about your plans. Do you already have a place picked out? Is it close to town?”

  Mark’s eyes sparkled at the prospect of regaling someone about his ideas. “Yes, I do have something picked out. In fact, I closed on the property last week. It’s a little three-bedroom, two bath farmhouse miles from Alsuma, Oklahoma. Miles from Alsuma’s traffic jams, overcrowded schools, miles from the crime. It’s located outside a little town called Button Creek.” He paused to see if Macon showed any sign of recognition.

  She wagged her head. “That name doesn’t ring a bell,” she said. “What’s it close to?”

  “The closest town to Button Creek is Norman. It’s a few miles east of there.”

  “Okay,” she nodded. “I know the area. Pretty country.”

  “Unbelievably beautiful,” Mark said excitedly. “We’ve got sixty-five acres of God's best land.” He looked blankly out the window picturing the place in his mind. “There’s ten acres of pasture, and fifteen for crops.” He turned his eyes back to Macon. “The rest is all wooded with thick stands of oaks and cedars. There’ll be so much for Abe to do, so much to explore. And we’ll get horses and goats and chickens.”

  He paused in his excitement the smile on his face wide and genuine.

  “Well, if Abe’s half a
s excited about this change as I see you are,” Macon said. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.” Her glance fell again on the clock and she stood. “I’m sorry to cut you short, Detective, or should I just say, Mark, now that you’re retired.”

  “Mark is fine,” he said rising to his feet.

  “I’ve got another patient in five minutes.” Macon pulled a business card from her desk and wrote a phone number across the back. “If Abe should encounter any problems, feel free to call. I know several doctors that work in the Norman area. I can recommend someone…if you find a need.”

  Mark took the card and shook her hand. “Thanks, Doc, I will.” He opened his wallet and stuffed the card in. “But I think Abe will be A-OK.”

  “I’m sure he will,” Macon said.

  Mark strolled into the waiting room and found Abe sitting on a wide maroon couch reading a Sports Illustrated. “You ready to go?” he asked.

  Abe tossed the magazine onto the table his eyes rolling to the ceiling. “Finally, what took so long?” He shuffled to the door and shouldered it open. “I’ve been starving half to death the whole time you were in there.”

  “I’ll bet you were,” Mark laughed. He tried to scruff a hand across Abe’s long hair, but the boy jerked away and shot him a dark look.

  They strode across the lot towards Mark’s white F150. In the truck’s bed, two dressers and several cardboard boxes peeked from beneath a green plastic tarp strapped across the top. Sliding behind the steering wheel, he started her up and glanced over at Abe. “How about we grab some conies before we head out of town?”

  Abe clicked his safety belt and sighed. “Yeah, I guess that would work.” He pulled out his phone and began typing at the screen. “I’m so hungry I could probably eat ten.”

  “Ten huh?” Mark dropped the truck into gear and pulled onto the main road. “That’ll probably hold you ‘til we get to the new house. But just barely.”