From A Dead Sleep Page 2

  It was the same expression Sean himself had witnessed so many times—when looking in the mirror. Sorrow. Regret.

  A hit-man with a conscience? he wondered.

  The man’s shoulders dropped lower, and he took another deep breath. After glancing back out along the river’s path, he suddenly built up enough motivation to stand up straight. The bottom of his long trench coat spilled back to his ankles. He used his right hand to hang onto the guardrail, keeping himself balanced on the edge of the old wooden planking. The injured hand quickly shoved the wallet back into his pocket. It went in much easier than it came out, though the man’s face seemed to twist in pain at the movement. He leaned to his side to retrieve the pistol.

  Sean wondered why the man was making no immediate attempt to climb back over the railing to safety.

  Instead, the stranger remained in an upright position balancing his heels along the edge of the bridge while his calves rested against the guardrail. Then, he held the butt of the gun to his chest with both hands.

  “Hey . . .” Sean instinctively said to himself in a whisper before quickly raising up to his knees. Remaining hidden no longer felt important.

  His focus shifted back and forth from the man’s desperate eyes to the gun he held in front of his body in an awkward grip. It had suddenly become apparent that the series of actions unfolding before Sean were concluding something very different than what he’d originally thought.

  The stranger shuffled the gun in his noticeably trembling hands before holding it in a conventional fashion with his right. He steadily raised his arm back over his shoulder and drew the gun awkwardly to the back side of his head, using his other hand to direct the barrel to the base of his skull.

  The oddity and mystery of what he was witnessing was no longer Sean’s concern. No more questions. No more observation. He was certain the man was about to take his own life, and he wasn’t going to sit by and let it happen.

  “Hey!” Sean heard himself call out in a voice loud and scary enough to gain the attention of anyone . . . unless that person was standing above the loud crashing sound of roaring water rapids.

  The man didn’t flinch or show any indication that he had heard Sean’s call. He continued to hold the barrel in place with the metal tip resting against the back of his skull.

  Sean’s teeth clenched as he quickly scrambled up the short hill and onto the dirt road. His footing slid on the damp grass, but his persistence gave him the traction he needed.

  “Hey!” he screamed out again, projecting his voice even louder than the first time.

  There was still no reaction from the man who stood about forty yards away. The motion of his arms had come to a grizzly halt. His limbs contorted back behind his body with the barrel of the gun glued to its intended target.

  “Stop!” Sean roared, waving his arms frantically back and forth above his head as if he were directing a grounded plane. He prayed his wild movements would catch the man’s peripheral vision, but they received no response.

  Sean engaged in an all-out sprint, something he hadn’t done much of since his high school football days. The loud modulation of crackling gravel was soon replaced by the sharp groaning of wooden boards once he broke the plain of the bridge. Air pressed heavily from his nose and mouth. With a grueling red face, his chest thrust forward with each stride. Despite the great amount of effort he was extending, he felt as if he were running underwater in a dream. His body couldn’t move as fast as his mind.

  About twenty yards away now.

  Sean’s jaw lifted as he prepared to deliver another verbal plea, but before a syllable could leave his mouth, his eyes glared in horror at the image of the man purposely letting his body fall forward off the bridge. Sean’s mind interpreted the scene in slow motion. Regardless of how fast his legs were pumping, there was no way of reaching the stranger in time. This curtain of helplessness was quickly replaced by numbing shock when a deep-red spray jetted through the air, just above where the stranger’s body dropped from visibility. After hovering for a second, the red mist quickly dispersed into the breeze.

  There was no sound of a gunshot. The silencer had done its job.

  With a coarse gasp and a wrenching cramp in his stomach, Sean immediately altered his direction toward the railing at his side. He dropped to his knees and craned his neck over the edge, just in time to see the fluttering trench coat drop into the swirling water below with a loud splash.

  Water flew high into the air, but the jetting rapids quickly replaced all disruption of the river’s flow. The body disappeared into the violent churning; swallowed whole. All that was left was a burning smell and a red, discolored stream of water that dissolved into whiteness as it was quickly carried downstream.

  Sean’s chest heaved in and out as he struggled for breath. He felt as if he himself was drowning. The realization of what he had just witnessed quickly sank into the depths of his stomach.

  Chapter 2

  Breath was in short supply as Sean’s feet fumbled briskly along the rocky edge of the river. He tried his best to keep his eyes on the black blob he’d thought he saw momentarily bobbing up and down as it shot downstream.

  Thick pine branches smacked against his face, and his ankles repeatedly buckled under the weight of his body as he negotiated round, wet rocks and overturned foliage. He could taste sap on his lips. More than once his legs dipped down into freezing cold water, which drenched his pants. Yet, none of nature’s obstacles hindered resolve.

  Sean himself couldn’t say where his persistence and motivation were coming from, but the helplessness he had felt while kneeling at the top of the bridge did not sit well. His heart wouldn’t let him give up. Anger encompassed him as he briskly lumbered alongside the water. The anger stewed from his failure to recognize, until it was too late, what was transpiring right before him. He also felt intense guilt over the effect his poor decision from the night before was having on his body. If his head was just a little clearer, and his legs had moved just a little faster, maybe he would have been able to stop the stranger. Then again, if he wouldn’t have gotten drunk, he wouldn’t have been there in the first place. Perhaps he was being too hard on himself.

  After a few more seconds, and one last possible appearance of the bubbled-up coat, Sean lost all traces of the stranger. The water was moving too fast. The body was gone.

  He stopped and dropped to his knees, refusing to take his eyes off of the river. All was eerily tranquil again. A light breeze; birds singing. It was as if nothing had ever happened.

  Minutes later, his side cramped with ferocity as he strove to keep up a jogging pace. A dry belch bellowed from deep within his stomach and he tasted hours-old alcohol in his mouth. His ankle ached from twisting on a rock along the river’s edge. Still, even through straining muscles and painful panting, he lumbered his way steadily down on the dirt and gravel of County Road 2, headed toward town. Dense beads of sweat poured down the sides of his face. His drenched hair shone. Images of the horrific scene from the bridge were still fresh in his head, and the scent of a gun being fired still lingered in his nose. They all took a momentary backseat to the thoughts of what reaction he would face from the town’s authorities.

  Sean had a very complicated relationship with the chief of police, Gary Lumbergh. The two were engaged in what could best be described as a rivalry that was a secret to no one. In fact, it was often the local talk amongst the citizens of Winston, where gossip was as common as the fields of purple and white columbines that decorated the surrounding landscape.

  He dreaded the thought of another encounter—especially one that would surely leak to the public—but he knew he hadn’t a choice.

  His heavy breathing and pounding feet hindered Sean from hearing the rattling frame and purring engine of the old, red pickup truck that approached him from behind at a snail’s pace.

  “Hey, Sean!” a gravelly voice sounded out, causing Sean’s head to quickly spin.

  The view of old Milo Coltraine’s
gray-bearded face, hanging outside the window of his 1972 Chevy pickup, was a welcome sight. Sean came to a relieved halt and doubled over to suck in air. His hamstrings ached, and his throat felt raw. With his chest mightily expanding and contracting, he scurried up to the driver’s side door, his hand clutched at his side. He hadn’t the energy for a drawn- out explanation of what had happened at the bridge, but Milo was certainly eager to talk.

  “I hear Moses Jones gave ya quite a spankin’ last night!” Milo hollered, following up with his trademark obnoxious laugh that resembled more of a howl.

  The wide suede cowboy hat he always wore made Milo look like an old gold prospector from another era. At the same time, his weathered skin and the space at the center of his crooked teeth invited comparisons to a desert lizard.

  Without wasting another second, Sean’s large hand latched onto the outside handle and quickly yanked the truck’s driver side door open. Milo’s eyes bulged in surprise and his laugh disappeared, not expecting such an intrusion.

  “Move aside, Coltraine!” Sean snarled before shoving his open hand firmly into Milo’s shoulder.

  “Hey!” Milo screamed, his voice reaching even a higher pitch as Sean shoved him effortlessly across the bench seat.

  Milo was a very short, top-heavy man with little coordination. His legs kicked wildly in the air as he struggled to keep from being knocked to his back.

  “What in the hell are ya doin’, boy?”

  The truck never even came to a stop. It coasted slowly as Sean lifted himself up into the driver’s seat with a hardening grunt. The door closed behind him.

  “Sean! Dammit!” Milo yelled, after managing to lean forward enough to latch his frail and freckled fingers onto Sean’s wrist.

  Sean effortlessly shook his arm free and stomped his foot down on the gas pedal. The sudden jolt of acceleration forced Milo’s body to sink deep into his seat. Sean’s legs barely fit around the steering wheel, and his knees dug into the dashboard. He felt like a canned sardine and quickly grabbed a side lever above the floorboard and yanked on it to slide the bench seat back.

  “Jesus, Milo! How short are you?” Sean grumbled more in the form of an accusation than a question.

  A cardboard air freshener, shaped like a pine tree but having long ago lost its scent, swung from the rearview mirror as wind and dust filled the car through the open window. Two empty boxes of cheap cigarettes fell off the dashboard and onto Sean’s lap.

  “I ain’t playin’ ‘round!” Milo threatened after finally managing to sit up straight. “Pull over and get outta my truck!”

  Milo’s breath smelled strongly of corn chips, which was confirmed by the handful of crumpled-up Big Grab Fritos bags wedged into the middle of the seat cushion.

  “I’m not playing neither!” Sean barked without taking his eyes off the road. “Listen to me! A man just died! I need to get into town and tell Lumbergh!”

  Milo didn’t immediately respond, taking a moment to let Sean’s claim bounce around the walls of his head. “Whatcha’ talkin’ about, A man just died? What man?”

  “Back at Meyers Bridge! Just now! He shot himself!”

  Milo hesitated again before responding, glaring suspiciously at the side of Sean’s face.

  “Are you shittin’ me, boy? There’s a dead fella at Meyers Bridge?”

  “Yes! I mean . . . No! He jumped into the river!”

  Sean couldn’t verbalize a coherent explanation and had little patience to. He was out of breath, his heart was racing, and his primary concern was reaching town.

  Milo, however, wasn’t about to let Sean off the hook with such a cryptic statement. He grabbed his shoulder and used his other hand to point an accusatory finger.

  “Ya said he shot himself! Then ya said he jumped inta’ the river! This story smells like horse-shit ta’ me!”

  Sean’s head shook in frustration while a sour scowl twisted across his lips.

  The truck tore around a sharp corner and onto the paved road of Main Street, leaving behind it a wide cloud of dust. Sean scratched the back of his head with one hand, causing small flakes of dried skin to drop to his shirt collar. His other hand stayed tightly glued to the steering wheel.

  “Milo! I just . . . I don’t have time for your shit right now!”

  Milo didn’t take kindly to the words. “Oh! Oh! I’m so sorry! Ya stole ma’ truck! Whatcha think Lumbergh’s gonna say about that? Huh?”

  “Milo . . . I don’t give a shit what Lumbergh says! When I’m done talking to him, you can tell him your whole life story. For now, just sit there and shut up!” Sean’s head turned toward the old man for the first time, and a frightening glare finally earned compliance.

  Milo was visually furious, but the look in Sean’s eye scared the old man. Sean had a reputation for being a loose cannon, and Milo knew better than to light the fuse. He sat back in his seat and folded his arms in front of him, shaking his head in disapproval.

  The engine roared louder as Sean picked up speed. Main Street was a straightaway right into town.

  Peering at Sean from the corner of his eye, Milo spoke in a less fiery tone. “Ya know . . . All ya had ta’ do was ask, and I’d a given ya a ride ta’ town.”

  “Milo . . . No offense, but I could have jogged to town faster than if I’d have let you drive.”

  Chapter 3

  Every morning, Chief Gary Lumbergh looked forward to that first cup of coffee. That day’s flavor was Ethiopian Longberry. Its rich aroma elegantly drifted up from the steaming ceramic mug that sat proudly on a coaster on top of the chief ’s redwood oak desk. It spread an ambiance of warmth and comfort through the small office, reminding Lumbergh of the big city. The chief had recently become a member of a coffee of the month club, which he had signed up for over the Internet. This was the premium stuff. Gourmet; much too coveted and high-quality to find at the local supermarket.

  Clad in a neatly pressed, light blue dress shirt with rolled up sleeves and a sleek, navy blue tie, Lumbergh didn’t fit the mold of the typical small town lawman. In fact, he was about as far removed from the laid-back and hospitable Andy Griffith–type anyone could possibly be.

  While he was well respected by the citizens of Winston and neighboring communities, it wasn’t Lumbergh’s charm or demeanor that made him a hit with the locals. He had a name and quite a resume.

  Unlike most of its citizens, Lumbergh hadn’t grown up in Winston, Colorado. He hadn’t even stepped foot inside the state until two years earlier, when he left a prestigious position as a police lieutenant in Chicago. There he’d been involved in numerous high-profile cases that spanned a range of crimes. Murderers, rapists, bank robbers—Lumbergh had worked them all. There, he had quickly become a seasoned veteran of law enforcement, receiving numerous promotions, all of which were earned before his thirty-fourth birthday. Back then, the sky was the limit for Lumbergh.

  For the chief, those days seemed so long ago. A quickly fading memory. Now, his largest responsibilities usually involved delinquent high school kids, domestic disputes, or public intoxication—often a combination of the three. He regularly questioned his consequential decision to leave the big time . . . but only to himself. He had made a commitment, and that commitment left him as a big fish in the small pond of Winston.

  Chief Gary Lumbergh’s name was bigger than he was, at least physically. He was a short and thin man, standing at around five-foot-six and 135 pounds of pure, unadulterated confidence. Short, slicked-back, dark hair only partially covered the thinning area along his scalp, but Lumbergh wasn’t self-conscious at all about how he looked. Always clean shaven and feverishly chewing on a stick of gum, he had a way of getting things done.

  He was a certified workaholic, living in a world that never moved fast enough for his liking. For him, patience was not a virtue—it was a shortcoming. It wasn’t uncommon for him to be seen snapping his fingers to hurry up the testimony of a complainant or feverishly writing down notes in a cryptic form of abbreviation that only he
could decipher.

  Cowboy hats and cowboy boots—Lumbergh never wore either. In fact, he despised them both so much that he forbade his officers from wearing them while on duty. The uniforms that he approved weren’t much different than what he had worn proudly during the early days of his career: black shoes and a black tie over navy blue. If a subordinate wasn’t professional enough to look professional, he or she had no place in Lumbergh’s squad. The chief took his job extremely seriously and demanded perfection. Of course, perfection was a relative term when it came to the citizens of Winston. Still, he was persistent in striving for it.

  It was a slow morning, like most mornings in Winston, yet Lumbergh was feeling uncharacteristically cheerful. Unlike most people, he enjoyed working on the weekends. What little crime that did occur tended to happen then.

  Leaning back in his burgundy leather desk chair and clasping his fingers behind his head, he admired the numerous plaques and certificates that decorated his office walls. They made him feel proud. They made him feel legitimate. They let him remember. With a sly smile, he glanced down across his desktop at a large black-and-white framed photo of him with his arms wrapped around a pretty brunette with long hair, bright brown eyes, and a dazzling smile.

  Lumbergh’s office was extremely organized. Artwork hung symmetrically along freshly painted walls, the tile floor had been recently waxed, and all furniture was free of dust.

  Outside his door, he enjoyed the sound of file cabinets being opened and closed, and keys being typed. It meant work was getting done, or at least sounded like it was getting done. He liked his people busy. In fact, as small as it was, his office often helped neighboring divisions with their workload. The unusual practice helped increase the chances that Lumbergh would be involved in more interesting work than could be found inside his own town limits. He also felt it somewhat of an obligation, considering his skillset.

  Being from the big city, he was an automatic celebrity to the rural townsfolk. To them he was articulate, knowledgeable, and commanding. Many seemed to place greater value on him than they did themselves, and who was Lumbergh to argue? He won a landslide election victory over the previous chief, who couldn’t compete with the big-time law enforcement experience a former police lieutenant could bring. The incumbent was so old and ready for retirement anyway that he later thanked Lumbergh for running against him. The voters always supported Lumbergh. His latest funding request for a new police cruiser won almost unanimous support from the public. In fact, records showed that only one person in the town voted against that initiative, and he had a pretty good idea who that person was.