Bloodlust

Chapter 1

The jangle of his cell phone jarred John from a deep sleep and caused Beth to flinch. “Sorry, sweetheart.” He slid his arm from around her and reached for the phone on the nightstand. “This is Bowie.”

“Sir, it’s Officer Brad Clarence. I’m sorry to disturb you at this time of night.”

John checked the time. Actually it wasn’t that long until dawn. He paired a face with the name Clarence. The patrolman was young and green, but earnest and strived to do well. “What’s up?”

Clarence hesitated as though bracing to impart bad news. “It’s, uh, it’s Mitch Haskell, sir.”

Muttering an obscenity, John sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “What about him?”

“I got a disturbance call from a bar on Madison Street.

Haskell was smashing up the place. One of the customers tried to calm him down, but Haskell was having none of it.

When the bartender attempted to escort him out, it turned into an altercation.

Haskell threw some punches, but none landed.

Then he broke a liquor bottle against the bar and threatened the guy with what was left of the neck of it.

“It was gettin’ hairy, so one of the least drunk patrons called it in. By the time I got there, Haskell had passed out. He went down face first. Landed on the jagged glass he was holding. Cut his own self.”

“Bad?”

“Didn’t appear to be, but another inch and he could’ve slit his own throat.”

“So where is he now?”

“I brought him to the station. Took three of us to wrestle him into the drunk tank. When we tried to get some first aid on the cut on his neck, he put up a fight.”

“John?” By now Beth was fully awake and propped on her elbows, looking at him with concern.

He covered the phone with his hand. “It’s Mitch.”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yeah.” Her tone had been sorrowful. His, pissed.

He shared a lot of history with Mitch, who was a detective in the Crimes Against Persons unit, which John headed. Mitch was a decorated Marine special ops veteran, a former DEA undercover agent, and also John’s most trusted confidant, his go-to backup guy, and longtime best friend.

Clarence was asking John what he wanted to be done with him. “For now, leave him in the tank.”

“He’s being real… vocal.”

“Ignore him. Whatever he says, no matter how offensive, don’t respond, or he’ll just keep doing it. I’ll deal with him when I come in.”

“All right, sir.” The young cop hesitated, then said, “I’m awful sorry about this. I know y’all go way back. He didn’t give me a choice, sir.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

After disconnecting, John stayed as he was, tapping his phone against his chin, staring thoughtfully at the floor, until he felt Beth’s cool hand on his back.

For a moment, he let himself enjoy her comforting touch, then turned and took her hand, lifted it to his mouth, and kissed her palm. She asked what had happened, and he gave her a recap.

“Is he all right?”

“Unruly and rowdy, as only Mitch can be.” Then, temporarily shaking off thoughts of his next face-to-face with his friend, he placed his hand on Beth’s distended abdomen. “How’s the little fellow treating you tonight?”

“He kicked in protest when you left us to answer the phone. He knows your touch.”

“Give me a break. My hand is bigger and heavier than yours, that’s all.”

“He knows you.”

“You think? Really?”

“Um-huh.”

Pleased, he said, “I wouldn’t mind him coming out asking, ‘Where’s Dad?’”

Beth smiled and drew him down to her. Against his lips, she whispered, “And you’ve actually got people believing you’re a badass.”

The following kiss was deep, long, loving. When he broke it, he nuzzled her neck and snarled, “I am a badass, woman, and don’t you forget it.” Laughing softly, she pushed him away.

But John’s playful mood didn’t last. As he got up, he said, “I definitely need to be one this morning.”

The midsummer humidity of Louisiana could drain an individual of all vitality within minutes. In Auclair, which was virtually surrounded by bayous and swampland, the heaviness of the atmosphere also lent an aura of somnolence to the streets of the small city.

Along John’s route to work, few homes gave any indication that the residents were up and about yet. Even the breeze was desultory, barely disturbing the stringy gray moss that draped the far-reaching branches of stately live oak trees.

But this seemingly lazy Sunday morning was a deceptive harbinger of what the day would bring. John knew that all hell was about to break loose.

When he arrived at police headquarters, personnel who’d worked the graveyard shift were drifting out; the day force was coming in.

He bid greetings to those he passed on his way up to the CAP unit, but didn’t stop to talk with anyone except for Patrolman Clarence, who answered a few terse questions John put to him.

There really wasn’t much more for the young cop to report except that Mitch’s invectives had turned increasingly abusive before he’d finally settled down.

John thanked the officer for the update, went into his office, and called the police superintendent. He caught him sleeping in, but he had wanted to inform him of Mitch’s misbehavior before the grapevine could beat him to it.

“It’s your department, John. I trust you to deal with him as you see fit.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

After signing off, John took the stairs down to the basement and briefly consulted the three officers on duty in the jail. He was told that only one cell was occupied and was pointed toward the last one in the row.

John left them and approached the barred cubical enclosure.

Mitch was half reclined on the bunk, propped up in the corner formed by pitted concrete walls. His feet were planted on the stained mattress, his head bent over his knees, which he was hugging to his chest.

Whether he had heard John’s arrival or merely sensed his glowering presence, he raised his head and said sourly, “About time.”

Upon hearing that, the cops on duty stopped whatever they were doing. Mitch seemed either not to notice or not to care that the two of them had an audience, although John was keenly aware of it.

Mitch lowered his stockinged feet to the floor, stood up, and gave a shudder like a dog coming awake. Placing his hands in the small of his back, he arched it and stretched. He popped his neck, rolled his shoulders, then ambled over to the bars separating him from John.

A trail of dried, crusty blood extended down from his earlobe onto his neck and the collar of his rumpled shirt. His eyebrows were drawn into a frown that hooded his eyes. Piercing blue and sniper sharp, they managed to project hostility and insolence despite being bloodshot.

He said, “Took you long enough. Didn’t they call you?”

“Yeah, they called me. Told me they had a drunk and disorderly asshole in the tank. A repeat troublemaker who might have gone too far this time.”

Mitch snorted. “Oh, like you’ve never been shit-faced. Many a time when you and Jose Cuervo were like this,” he said, crossing his fingers, “I had to come along behind and scrape you off the floor. Remember?” When John didn’t respond, he huffed and said, “Whatever, bro. Just get me out of here.”

John held Mitch’s surly stare for so long, the officers watching became uneasy. There was a shuffling of feet, an exchange of wary glances, a quiet cough. Finally, John motioned the officer at the desk to remotely open the cell door.

The mechanism squeaked, and steel clanked against steel as the door slid open. “That needs some WD-40,” Mitch said as he walked out of the cell. Sidestepping John, he yawned and said, “Man, do I look forward to grabbing some z’s in my own bed. See you tomorrow.”

John let him get a few feet past him, then grabbed him by the shoulder, turned him around, and slammed him back against the bars of the cell.

“What the fu—”

“Shut up,” John said, getting right in his face. “Just shut up.”

Mitch retaliated by ramming his shoulder into John’s chest. But John shoved him back, hard, and held him against the bars with a hand on each of his shoulders. “Only because, only because you did have to scrape me off the floor a few times, I’m going to do you a favor and give you a choice.

“Option one. You can choose to be booked right now, stay in here until you’re arraigned or until you can persuade somebody to bail your sorry ass out.

Or, option two, you can go home, wash off your awful stink, and, within one hour, report to the unit, where you’ll call the owner of the place you busted up.

You’ll plead with him not to press charges in exchange for covering the cost of repairs.

Then, I expect you to be ready to perform your assigned duties.

And I had better not smell any gin on your breath or discover it’s not water in your YETI. ”

“It’s Sunday.”

“I don’t care if it’s the second coming,” John fired back.

He released one of Mitch’s shoulders and pointed an index finger directly at his nose.

“Within one hour, Mitch. If you don’t show up, I’ll issue a warrant.

Public intoxication. Assault. Destruction of property.

Any damn malfeasance I can think of. And I am not bullshitting you.

” John released him and took a step back. “What’s it gonna be?”

Mitch’s chest rose and fell with outrage. His eyes glittered with fury. Between clenched teeth, he said, “Take a wild guess.”

“Option two? Good.”

“My truck’s at the bar. Unless it’s been stolen.”

John looked over at the speechless officers who’d witnessed the scene. “Return him his belongings, then somebody drive him over to get his truck.” He came back around to Mitch. “See you in an hour.”

Mitch’s heavy-duty SUV was where he’d left it parked behind the bar, and it appeared not to have been messed with. As he pulled onto the road, he lowered the driver’s window because John had been right. He stunk.

He wore the stench of the cleaning agent used in the drunk tank. While strong enough to make your eyes water, it failed to eradicate the rank odors of unwashed bodies, vomit, piss, misery, and despair, all of which seemed to have seeped into his pores.

It was a cloudy morning and all the window shades in his apartment were down, so the rooms were gloomy, but he didn’t bother to turn on a light until he went into his bathroom.

The fixture above the sink was bright, its glare unforgiving as it shone down on him.

If a casting agent was looking for someone to play the skid row bum, he’d get the part, hands down.

He brushed his teeth ruthlessly, but shaved with care, gingerly guiding the razor around the cut on his neck. The neck of that broken bottle had come perilously close to his carotid.

In the shower, he lathered twice and scrubbed his hair and scalp. Clean and dressed, he checked his watch and figured he had time for at least one cup of coffee, which he was in desperate need of.

He made quick work of brewing one, then, holding the steaming mug in one hand, he used the other to call a number he had on speed dial. His mother-in-law answered.

“Good morning, Mitch.”

“Morning, Mary. I called to apologize for not making it last night.”

She waited for a count of five before responding.

Her frequent pauses like that were intended to underscore his shortcomings.

“I had told Andrew you were coming. He kept his nose pressed to the window watching for you, asking when you would get here, and whining as it got later. He wound up crying himself to sleep.”

Mitch set his coffee mug on the dining table and pressed against his temples with his thumb and middle finger. “I got held up at work. By the time I got free, there was no sense in driving to Lafayette. Andrew would have already been in bed.”

“You could have called.”

“It got late. I didn’t want to disturb you and Hank. I’m sorry. Now please put Andrew on the phone.”

“Hank is getting him dressed. We’re about to leave for Mass.”

“I know what time Mass starts, Mary. You’ve got plenty of time.”

“Yes, just time enough for a quick hello/goodbye from you that will get Andrew upset again. As happens every time you call.”

“An indication of how much he loves me, don’t you think?”

“I’ve never disputed that he loves you.”

The following five-count pause was to remind him that he’d brought this separation from Andrew on himself.

Then she said, “It sounds like he’s putting up a fuss about having to wear shoes. Hank needs help. Thank you for the apology.”

And just like that, the phone went dead.

Mitch cursed, dropped his phone onto the kitchen table, and covered his face with both hands. He inhaled and exhaled heavily several times, trying to get a grip on himself and suppress a riot of emotions.

But they were irrepressible. He swiped at tears that filled his eyes as the ever-simmering anger boiled up inside of him seeking an outlet, a target on which to direct his wrath with the impetus of a wrecking ball.

His mother-in-law? The exchanges like they’d just had, where more was left unsaid than spoken, didn’t change or improve anything, so what purpose would be served by a full-out go-round with her?

It would only create additional tension, which Andrew would sense, and that would be detrimental to a child not yet three years old.

He didn’t want to alienate Mary, anyway.

She’d suffered just as he had. For the time being, Andrew needed her, and so did he.

To direct his anger at God would be a validation of his existence, which he, once a faithful believer, had soundly denounced.

But this seething rage that he’d lived with for two years was all-consuming and combustible. The only way he was ever going to be free of it was to rain down hell on the persons responsible for it.

He lowered his hands from his face and looked at the framed photo on his dresser, which he’d taken on the day of Andrew’s christening. Angela, holding the baby in the cradle of her arms, was beaming into the camera, radiating joy.

“Angela,” he whispered hoarsely, “I swear by the devil himself, we’ll have our vengeance.”