There were only two units on the road at any one time despite the size of the county. Unit One was reserved for Chief Goss and Unit Three was in reserve.
“We’ll investigate and call in if we need backup. ”
“Respond Code Two. Proceed with caution … JT. ” There was the slightest pause between “caution” and his name, and JT thought he heard Flower start to say “Hon—. ” She called him “honey” off the radio all the time and was constantly getting yelled at by the chief. She was the mayor’s sister, and it was more than the chief’s job was worth to fire her.
“Roger that. ”
JT clicked off and then tapped the dashboard button to give the siren a single “Whoop!” A moment later the door to Pinky’s banged open, and Dez Fox came out at a near run, a white paper bag between her teeth and two extra-large coffees in paper cups in her hands. She handed a cup through the open window then leaned half inside and opened her mouth to drop the bag in his lap.
“What’s the call?” she asked, looking irritated that police work was interfering with the ritual of caffeine and carbs. JT knew that it was sacred to her.
“Possible break-in at Doc Hartnup’s place. ”
“Who the fuck would want to break into a mortuary?”
“Probably a drunk. Even so, I could use some backup. ”
“Yeah … let’s do ’er, Hoss … But lights, no sirens though, okay? My head’s held together with duct tape right now. ”
“Won’t make a sound,” he promised.
Dez reached in and took the bag back and carried it with her to her cruiser.
“Hey!” JT yelled. She gave him the finger again. When she looked back, JT stuck his tongue out at her and Dez cracked up, then winced and pressed a hand to her head.
“Owwww. ”
JT leaned out the window. “Ha!” he yelled.
A few seconds later Dez blew out of the parking lot in a spray of gravel. She hit the blacktop, punched the red and blue lights, and the big engine roared as she rocketed north on Doll Factory Road. JT sighed, snugged his coffee into the holder, and followed at a discreet seventy miles per hour.
CHAPTER SIX
GREEN GATES 55-PLUS COMMUNITY
FAYETTE COUNTY, PENNSYLVANIA
The old doctor sat on a hard wooden chair in the kitchen and stared at the phone. The call from the warden at Rockview Prison—where the old man worked as the chief medical officer—had been brief. Simply the warden conveying an interesting bit of information. Six words stood out from that conversation.
“We transferred his body this morning. ”
Those six words, so casually spoken, were like knives in the doctor’s chest.
We transferred his body this morning.
Forcing his voice to sound calm, forcing himself not to scream, the doctor had asked for, and been given, the names and phone numbers of the mortician who had arrived to take the body and the relative of the deceased who had made the arrangements. A relative the doctor had not known existed. No one had known. There were not supposed to be any relatives. The corpse was supposed to go into the ground after the execution. It was supposed to be in the ground now.
“Oh my god,” the doctor whispered.
He got up from his chair, walked like a sleepwalker into the living room, up the stairs, into his bedroom. He opened the closet, reached up onto the shelf, removed a zipped case, opened it, and stared dazedly at the gun. A Russian Makarov PM automatic pistol. He’d bought it new in 1974. When he had defected, the CIA took the pistol away, but eventually returned it to him. A sign of trust. He sat down on the edge of the bed. There was a box of shells in the case and three empty magazines. The doctor opened the box and began feeding shells into a magazine. He did it slowly, methodically, almost totally unaware of what he was doing. His mind was elsewhere. Miles away, in a small town where a mortician would be opening a body bag.
“God,” he murmured again.
He slid the last bullet into the magazine and slid the mag into the frame. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and held it for ten seconds, then exhaled it slowly as he pulled the slide back to feed a round into the chamber.
The gun was heavy and cold.
It would be quick, though. He knew where and how to place it so that death would be certain. All it would take was a moment’s courage. If courage was the right word. Practical cowardice, perhaps.