Chapter Twenty-Six
Patrick and I burst out of the front doors of the police station. The wind blew a chill, and I turned up my jacket collar. We waited for cars to pass before we crossed the road and headed to the strip mall. Patrick’s eyes never stopped scanning the sidewalk, parking lot, and I took a cue from him. I hustled along at his side and searched for anything out of the ordinary, a familiar face, or a sudden movement.
The shopping center had a dozen or so businesses including a computer repair shop, Dairy Delish Ice Cream, a diner, and, on the very end, Jackson Variety—the convenience store, where someone had dialed my number.
Patrick held the door open, and we entered the shop. A man with a receding hairline slid a pack of cigarettes into his lumberjack shirt pocket on his way out. The tall wiry clerk with a wet mop haircut stood behind the counter and watched us as we approached.
“Can I help you?” he said. “Coffee? I can make some fresh.”
“No, thank you. I’m Officer Verbeek, and this is Ms. Harber. We work across the street. My colleague here received a call from this phone number at 4:48 p.m., and we’re trying to acquire the caller’s identity. Was it you who had made that call?”
“No, not me. I just started work at five,” he said.
“Could you give me the contact information of the employee working earlier? I’d like to speak with him, or her.”
“That would be, Shaan. He’s a dude, and I believe he is still here in the back. I’ll go check.”
“We’d appreciate that,” Patrick said, and the clerk trotted off.
I looked at Patrick and raised my eyebrows. “Colleague?”
He stifled a smile.
A slim guy wearing a jersey and baggy pants approached.
“Are you Shaan?”
“Yeah.”
“Hi, Shaan, how are you?”
The youth plunged his hands into his pockets. “I’m good.”
“Good to hear. Shaan, we’d like to know if you made a call from the store landline at 4:48 p.m. today?”
“No, I didn’t,” the young man said.
“I have documentation of a call originating from this store’s landline,” Patrick said with inarguable authority.
“Y-yes, there was a call made, but not by me. Some guy came in here, emptied the change from his wallet, and bought an energy drink, before asking to use the phone. I dialed for him, to make sure it wasn’t long distance.”
“Did you know this person?” Patrick asked.
“No, never seen him before.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Yeah, he was taller than me. Short, dark brown hair. Maybe in his thirties.”
“Did he say anything?” I asked.
“He said his cell battery was dead, and he had to call his girlfriend at work.”
I froze. A chill stroked my spine.
“Are there any other details you can remember about this customer?”
Shaan shook his head. “No. Except maybe he was white, like pale white. He was kinda hunched. Didn’t look well.”
“In what way?” I said.
“He looked sick. Maybe he was on drugs or something.”
Patrick readied his notepad and pen. “Shaan, would you mind giving me your contact information in case we need to ask further questions?”
“Sure,” he said and supplied Patrick with details.
We stepped outside, and I turned to Patrick. “Was I supposed to be the ‘girlfriend’ he was referring to?”
“I’d say that is a fair assumption.”
“I have a stalker?”
“Not if I can help it.”
Patrick stayed close to me as we crossed the road and got into the cruiser. During the drive to his place, I noticed Patrick glanced in the rearview mirror more than usual.
“Do you think we’re being followed?”
“No,” he said and gave my hand a reassuring squeeze.
When we arrived at his home, he escorted me in and bolted the door afterward. He peered out of the front window, unbuckled his utility belt, and dropped it onto an end table. He came over and pulled me into his arms for a full-on kiss. All engulfing, passionate, mind-numbing. He slowly pulled away and led me to the couch. He could have led me anywhere, and I would have followed. We sat, and he put his arm around me.
“Before I get completely unruly, we need to talk.”
“I’m amenable to that,” I said.
The side of his mouth lifted. “Amenable to the talk, or me getting unruly?”
I laughed.
His expression turned serious. “With regard to our case, I believe we’ve stumbled on something we’ve yet to figure out, and from here on in, we’re going to have to be more cautious.”
“Okay. But more cautious, how?”
“Go nowhere alone. Don’t go back to your apartment. Your address is visible on public listings. If someone wants to find you, you’ll be a sitting duck. And finally, always carry your weapon.”
“Weapon?”
“Yes, the one you chose, and the one I’m going to show you how to shoot.” He reached beside the sofa and picked up a black plastic case the size of a lunch box. He dialed a combination and opened it. Inside sat the revolver I had chosen. The seriousness of this case climbed tenfold. The most frightening part of this mystery was the uncertainty of how it would end.
“Want to try a few rounds before it gets dark?”
“Okay,” I said, although there was no “okay” about any of this.
He picked up the revolver. “As you know, guns always have to be treated like they’re loaded.”
He cocked it to check it and looked down the barrel.
“The barrel’s clear. Here on the side is the safety switch. And of course, you know where the trigger is. Never hold the gun with your finger on the trigger. That’s how accidents happen.”
He handed me the cold, heavy weapon, which felt surreal in my hand. I practiced loading the bullets. Patrick guided my hands to show me the proper technique. He handled the weapon expertly, smoothly, professionally. After familiarizing myself with the firearm, we went to the rear of the property. About five yards away, there was a poster of a human silhouette on a wooden board.
Patrick released the safety. Arms straight ahead, he pointed at the target, anchored his shooting hand with the other one, and pulled the trigger. Bam. He shot the figure in the head.
“Wow, you’re good,” I said.
He chuckled.
My turn. I stood with my feet shoulder width apart. Patrick helped position my arms as I aimed. I steadied my hands as much as I could and fired. The gun’s kickback surprised me, and more surprisingly, I had hit the target’s shoulder. Adrenaline surged through my veins.
“Great shot,” Patrick said. “You’ve disabled your target. Try again.”
I fired six more rounds and emptied the cylinder. I lowered the gun and pointed it at the ground. My arms shook from the “workout.”
“You hit the target with every shot, and the final round struck a kill zone. You’re a natural, June.”
“Nah. I’m just standing close to the human target thing.”
“You did good, babe.”
“Thanks, but—” I struggled to articulate my fear and trepidation. The gun in my hand wouldn’t allow me to minimize the seriousness of the situation any longer. I’d just traded in my pepper spray for a lethal weapon. Even if I was in danger, would I be able to bring myself to shoot someone?
“How about we wrap it up for the day?”
“Sounds good,” I said with immense relief. I ensured the cylinder and barrel were empty and handed it back to Patrick.
Patrick repeated the safety check. “I want you to carry that at all times,” he said.
His intense eyes scared me.
Was this case more dire than I thought?
Or was there something he knew he wasn’t telling me?