Back on Murder

It’s dark when A

“You left a light on,” I say, peeling my hand free.

“Leave it.”

“It’s people like you causing the energy crisis. Go on in, I’ll be back in a minute.”

She goes inside, leaving me to bound up the stairs, fumble with my keys, and shoulder my way through the door. Already there’s a musty, outdoors stench to the apartment, conjuring fears of the dreaded black mold. Now that Tommy’s out, we’ll have to see to this.

The neglected light is in the kitchen, reminding me of my conversation with Marta, the waitress from the Paragon. I pause with my hand on the switch, making myself a commitment not to return to that place, one I’ll probably break in time, though perhaps I won’t. To seal the promise, I turn off the light.

“March.”

The voice, coming suddenly out of the depths of the pitch-black living room, makes me jump. My hand slides under my shirt, reaching automatically for my off-duty piece.

“Don’t do it. You can’t see me, but I can see you.”

A pinpoint flashlight switches on at shoulder height, maybe fifteen feet away, blinding me, the kind of light usually affixed to a tactical firearm. Blinking, I struggle to make out the silhouetted figure behind the halo. But not because I haven’t identified the voice.

“It’s not too bright of you, coming here,” I say.

“That’s fu

“Then go ahead. If you’re expecting me to beg, you’ve got another 358 think coming.”

The bravado in my words surprises me, but I’m pleased, too. You fantasize about this situation – when the time comes, how will you go? On your feet or on your knees, that kind of thing. And I’ve always wanted to think of myself as defiant right to the end, a man who won’t snivel when the time comes to take his bullet, who’ll fight if the opportunity presents itself, not clinging too tightly to life.

“I hope you’re proud of yourself,” he says.

“Good. I am.”

He snorts with derision, the light dipping slightly. “I’ll bet you are. You know something? I’ve never understood you, March. From the very begi

“You started it. You made me look dirty.”

“What, snatching that gun? Your shooting was clean and we both knew it. What I did, it didn’t harm you. I wouldn’t have let that happen. If you think that, then you don’t know me at all.”

“I know you, Reg. Believe me, I do.”

“You don’t know a thing.”

“I know you popped Joe Thomson. What kind of cop – what kind of friend – does a thing like that? You worked with that guy for years. That’s cold-blooded. Don’t say I don’t know you, man, because I know your type. I always have.”

“I never could figure you out,” he says. “Back in the day, I saw some real promise in you. The way you handled yourself under fire, I was impressed. And even later, after you had me in your crosshairs, I still used to think you could be salvaged. When I heard what happened to your kid, March, I was genuinely sorry. And then the way you used it, wringing a confession out of that wife murderer. Man, that knocked me over. You want to talk cold-blooded – ”

“I didn’t use anything. That’s not how it happened.”

He whistles impatiently, unimpressed. “Thomson? He was as dirty as they come, and you would’ve let him walk just for testifying against me. Isn’t that right? The irony is pretty rich when you consider it was him that lit up that girl.”

“The girl on the bed? Salazar said that was you.”

“No doubt. He also said I pulled the trigger on Joe, which is a lie. He was the one. He’s your rogue cop. If I’d had any idea what was going on under my nose, I would’ve done something about it, but instead of coming to me – ”

“Is that your story? That’s why you’re here? You’re holding a gun on me to tell me you didn’t do it? Get a lawyer then and let’s go to court. I’d love to see you try to wiggle out of this.”

He tries to laugh, but it comes out as more of a hiss. “He stitched me up good, him and you. There’s nothing a lawyer can do…” His voice trails off, like even he’s losing confidence in the i

“Tell that to the girl.”

“We tried to save that girl,” he sniffs. “That’s the crazy thing. It was all ru

The tactical light lowers a bit more. I can almost see him, at least that’s what I tell myself. My body breaks out in a cold sweat, my hands tremble, my thoughts race. Do I stand here and banter until he decides to pull the trigger, or do I draw, risking an early demise? There’s a chance, there’s always a chance, that he’ll miss and I won’t. Or I’ll be wounded but still able to get off a shot. If the roles were reversed, though, I wouldn’t fancy the other guy’s chances.

“I have to tell you,” he says, his voice different, talking more to himself than me, “a turn of events like this, it’s enough to make you think. As long as we did our thing, you wouldn’t believe how easy it was. Everything went like clockwork. Believe me, we’re only losing the war on drugs because we aren’t fighting it, not on their level anyway. It was beautiful. Candy from a baby. But the moment we try to be the good guys, it all blows up. I should have left her there. I knew that. We should have stuck to our thing. We hadn’t pla

The room grows quiet. In a moment, wondering where I am, Charlotte will venture outside. She’ll call up the stairs, or even ascend them, and I’m not going to let that happen. My hand is damp. I wipe it against my pant leg. I don’t want anything to ruin my move, no glitch in the cycle of muscle memory, my hand flashing, pistoning forward, firing blindly into the light.

“March,” he says. “Don’t be stupid.”

I relax my hand, biding my time.

“I’m not here to punch your ticket, man. Not yet. It’ll happen one day, believe me. When you least expect it. Blah, blah, blah – you know the speech. But I’ll do it now if you want, and I’ll go down there and put a bullet in your wife, too. It’s your call.”

“Then why are you here?” I ask.

“Good question.” He laughs dryly. “Call it pride. Arrogance, maybe. But I wanted you to know I could do it. I wanted you to know you didn’t win. Trust me, March, I’m go

“I realize that. It was your own people, Reg. Thomson’s conscience. Salazar keeping that gun around to use against you.”

“No,” he says, the light bobbing. “It wasn’t that. It wasn’t you. It was fate.”

Before he finishes, the light disappears, leaving a ghost image behind on my retinas. I hear him moving. I shuffle backward, deep into the kitchen, drawing my pistol as I slip on the linoleum floor. Steadying myself, I raise the muzzle, but there’s nothing but darkness to focus on. My vision adjusts and I see the lighter darkness of the open door. I edge forward, gun at the ready, peering around the doorframe and down the stairs. The back door of the house, illuminated by a mosquito-swarmed bulb, is shut tight. Outside the cone of golden lamplight, nothing stirs.