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azombiewritesTitle: A Murder Hunt
- Sequel to ‘A Murder Mystery’
Rating: PG Bad Language
Fandom: The Magnificent Seven
Category: Four Corners Detectives AU
Main Characters: Ezra and JD
Disclaimers: The guys are owned by CBS, MGM, Trilogy Entertainment Group, and The Mirisch Corp.
Notes: The April 2005 Challenge (the Mystery Challenge) - offered by Jesfrealo. Write a story where a mystery plays a key role in the story. Have one or any combination of the guys be the detective(s). It can be funny or serious and in any open universe. Extra points if you make an unusual pair of the guys work together to figure out the mystery (so not Chris and Vin or Buck and JD...). Have fun!!
Summary: Detectives Standish and Dunne hunt for a killer
Spoilers: None
Author's note: A BIG thank you and a bear hug to the person who nominated this story for a 2008 & 2009 MoM award!
Warning: Josiah Sanchez is the bad guy in this story!
Part Two
Buck Wilmington steered his patrol car into Potter’s driveway with the palm of his left hand. His right hand was resting on his thigh, his service revolver held within its grip. Brown eyes, covered with reflective sunglasses, scanned the yard and house in front of him.
Roses once carefully maintained, now dead, lined the front of the yard much like a picket fence. Potter had taken it upon himself to poison them after a different type of poison had taken his wife. Mrs. Potter – who had made the best peach pie this side of Denver – had died of breast cancer two years previously. The full, colorful flowers had been a strong reminder of his once beautiful wife, a reminder Potter didn’t want to live with, but for some reason he wasn’t able to rid himself of the dead plants. In a way it was another reminder; a reminder of what he no longer had.
Maxine, Potter’s golden retriever (only golden because the old sod had use hair dye to make the animal look more . . . golden), lay curled on her side in the middle of the yard, her tail wagging so hard there was a possibility that it was going to fall off. Wilmington was grateful the normally gentle breed wasn’t a guard dog – Maxine didn’t bark, never had and he was sure she never would. When he opened the car door, the dog shifted, and then jumped to her feet. The next thing Wilmington knew, he was being French kissed by the animal. He didn’t mind so much; it was the most attention he’d received from a female in the past week.
“Down, Maxine, before you manage to shoot my damn knee off,” Wilmington growled through clenched teeth. When the dog immediately obeyed him, he rubbed her ear with his left hand – grimacing when the dye came off on his fingers – then motioned for her to move away. The dog took a few backward steps and promptly sat on her butt, tongue hanging and tail still wagging. During the tongue licking and subsequent removal of said tongue, Wilmington hadn’t taken his eyes off the house; man was a damn professional that way, and he wasn’t going to let a human loving dog distract him.
“Where’s your owner, Maxine? He okay?” There was no movement, no other sign of life coming from the Potter home.
Wilmington turned the engine off and placed the key in the inside pocket of his black uniform jacket. He stepped out of the car, leaving the door open, and raised his gun; the left hand brought up to support the right, the barrel never wavering from the rust colored building in front of him. After two sidesteps towards the house, Wilmington realized the dog was following him.
“Stay, Maxine.”
Again, the dog obeyed the command. Wilmington smiled; it was obvious his animal magnetism caused the dog to obey his every word. If only he had the same control over men. Sleeping with the odd married woman wouldn’t cause him so much trouble if he did. There would be no more desk duty, or night shifts. Men would envy his animal magnetism instead of claiming he was full of crap.
He took another step and his right foot found a small mound of dog shit. He didn’t look on it as an omen that his life might be just about to turn to shit.
Quickly wiping it off, he continued toward the house. When he reached the steps leading up to the front door, he stopped and listened for any sounds coming from within the house or around it. There was nothing. After quietly climbing the stairs, he stood toward the hinge side of the doorframe, and not the center of the door.
Knocking on the door, he said, “Mr. Potter, Four Corners Sheriff’s department . . . Mr. Potter!”
After a few moments of silence, Wilmington reached across with his left hand and tried the doorknob. It was unlocked as it should be. Potter never locked his doors. Wilmington began to wonder if it was a bad thing, not having a guard dog and leaving your doors unlocked. Anyone could approach the house without Potter knowing and easily gain access to the dwelling.
He opened the door and pushed it hard enough to bang against the wall. The sound was too loud in the surrounding quiet, but at least he knew there had been no one hiding behind it. He entered Potter’s home, leaving the door open behind him. With his back to the wall, he moved quickly around the perimeter of the room, scanning every inch of it with his eyes. No one hid behind the furniture that was now old and tattered. Potter’s home had lost the clean touch of a homemaker.
The main living area secured, he moved to his right, towards the kitchen.
There was no door, a large archway being the only entry point to the kitchen; the Potter house didn’t own a back door. He stepped up to the left of the entryway and searched the visible areas of the kitchen. An old round, oak wood table sat in the middle of the room. Henry Potter occupied the one and only chair. Blood and brain matter lay across the table like a breakfast buffet waiting for someone to come along and enjoy its enticing aroma. Keeping his gun in its original position, he stepped into the room so he could fully survey it. It was empty – except for Potter.
“You should have secured the outside first.”
Wilmington tensed up at the sound of Sanchez’s voice. He forced himself to relax and spoke with enough authority in his voice to scare someone’s grandmother, “Four Corners Sheriff’s department. You’re under arrest . . . put the gun down and get on your knees.”
“Make me.”
With the very intention of doing just that, Wilmington began to turn towards Sanchez, only to find that Sanchez had the upper hand. No longer wearing the ugly orange jumpsuit that was normal prison attire – instead wearing clothes that were once owned by Potter – an armed Sanchez stood with his body turned sideways, feet slightly apart, and left hand supporting his right. The gun was aiming for a kill shot.
“You gonna kill an Officer of the law?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Sanchez nodded in the direction of Wilmington’s gun. “Drop it . . . now!”
“My gun is bigger than your gun, so how ‘bout you drop yours.”
“Cocky aren’t you.”
“So the ladies say,” Wilmington smiled. “They sure are going to miss me.”
Sanchez tilted his head to the left and frowned at the man who’s life he was about to take. “You’re pretty casual for a man about to die.”
“Everyone has to die,” Wilmington shrugged. “Even you.”
“You first.”
Wilmington’s eyes widened in surprise behind his sunglasses as he watched Sanchez smile and lower his gun, his forefinger slowly applying pressure to the trigger until the gun fired. The bullet struck Wilmington in the center of the chest, the bulletproof vest stopping the projectile from causing any serious damage, such as instantaneous death. Struggling for breath, he fell to his knees, his gun falling to the floor beside him. In a moment of shear panic, he searched for the blood his common sense knew wouldn’t be there. His fingers found the bullet lodged in the vest. Momentary joy filled him at the thought of still being alive, and then his senses brought him back to reality.
Just in time to see a boot-laden foot coming towards him. The kick to the chest forced him onto his back and away from his gun. He looked up at Sanchez through a pain-filled haze. The stubbornness he was born with, stopped him from flinching away from Sanchez when the man reached toward him, ripping the sunglasses from his face. He was trying to decide if he should kick out at Sanchez, knock the gun out of his hand, when the man stepped back out of reach.
“I like to look into a man’s eyes before I kill him.” Sanchez explained.
“And if . . . I closed . . . them.” Wilmington almost felt embarrassed by his inability to draw in a decent breath.
“Go ahead, I’ve seen them now.” Sanchez smiled then added, “Not as fascinating as Standish’s. Never seen green eyes like that before.”
“Really, I’ve never . . . noticed. More into the . . . ladies myself.” The tightness in his chest finally eased enough to allow him to take a deep breath.
“I’m going to enjoy killing that pretty boy.”
“Seriously, are you . . . gay? Because I have to say, it’s kind of making me cringe . . . hearing you talk about my boss . . . that way.”
“Any last words.”
“Can I get laid first, haven’t had sex in a week.” Wilmington smiled up at Sanchez. “Would like to go out on a high.”
“There’s a corpse in the kitchen . . . perhaps you would like to--”
“Shoot me now.” Wilmington closed his eyes. He wasn’t afraid to die but he didn’t want to give Sanchez the pleasure of seeing the life go out of his eyes. The bullet he was waiting for didn’t come. He frowned and exposed his brown eyes only to see that Sanchez was still standing over him but so was Maxine.
The dog had entered the room without either man’s knowledge and now here she was, tail wagging, and tongue lolling. The drool dripping from her chin was already forming a puddle on the ground. She took an unsteady step forward then pounced, her front paws landing on Wilmington’s already painful chest. Air forced from his lungs and out through clenched teeth caused a sound that Maxine took the wrong way. To the human ear, it meant; ‘get the hell off me’ but to Maxine it meant; ‘lick away, Maxine.’
She began licking Wilmington’s face in earnest.
“Dog likes you,” Sanchez was mildly amused at the way the bitch was licking the man’s face.
“All women do.” Wilmington shifted his head to the side to try to get away from Maxine’s enthusiastic tongue licking.
“Dogs are a good judge of character.”
“She doesn’t like you, then?”
Sanchez smiled and said, “All dogs like me, and I like all dogs. They love unconditionally. Doesn’t matter if you rape, kill . . . shoot a police officer. You treat a dog right and you have a loyal friend for life.”
“Shame,” Wilmington grunted when the dog put even more weight on his chest, “that you didn’t think of Maxine before you killed old Henry.”
“How about I think of her now.”
Wilmington frowned.
“Say hello to Standish for me . . . tell him that I plan on killing him before I leave town,” Sanchez began to move backwards, his gun never leaving its target, “and look after Maxine.”
Wilmington watched the killer back out of the house. When Sanchez disappeared from his sight, he struggled to push Maxine off his chest.
“Maxine . . . get the hell off me.”
The dog obeyed, even though it was obvious she didn’t want to. Wilmington ignored the eruption of pain in his chest when he pushed himself onto his knees. Refusing to take his eyes off the door – in case Sanchez came back – he searched for his gun with his hand. It was a long three seconds before he found it. He jumped to his feet and ran for the door, stopping on the porch to look for Sanchez. Wilmington heard the rumble of an engine before he saw Potter’s blue, Jeep Wrangler appear from behind the house. Wilmington raised his gun and opened fire. Two bullets entered the side of the vehicle, missing the front left wheel by two inches. Another bullet punctured the driver’s seat, also missing the intended target.
Wilmington watched as Sanchez fired his own round of shots into the hood of the police car as he drove past it. In retaliation, Wilmington continued to fire, not caring if he hit his own vehicle or not. He smiled when two more of his bullets hit the Wrangler then swore when he realised that Sanchez was going to get away. “Fuck!”
He watched with hopeless frustration as the Wrangler reached the road, turned left and sped up towards town. Wilmington felt something nudge his leg and he looked down to find Maxine staring up at him. “Don’t worry girl, I’ll take care of you.” He wiped a hand over the dog’s face then used the small radio handset clipped to a strap on his shoulder to call the station.
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Standish blinked when another camera flash burned his vision. His eyes watered, distorting the horrific image in front of him. Potter still sat where Wilmington had found him; slumped over in his chair at the kitchen table, brains that once held a bitter personality now spread out in front of him. Standish couldn’t take his eyes off the sickly illustration – it was like looking at a morbid painting; you just couldn’t look away from it. The bullet to the back of the old man’s head told him that Potter hadn’t known what hit him. It had been all over in the blink of an eye. Bile began to flee his stomach, crawling its way up his throat towards his mouth, but he managed to force it back down before it made an appearance for all to see.
“Sanchez didn’t have to kill him.”
Standish turned to Dunne and said, “This is life, JD. It’s senseless and it’s a waste.”
“He was a lonely old man who didn’t deserve this.”
“No, he didn’t.” Standish turned back to the scene in front of him. The small kitchen was now crowded with crime scene investigators and the coroner’s technician, who at that exact moment of time was removing a thermometer from Potter’s liver. Standish grimaced at the sucking sound then said, “Death would have occurred sometime between 5:30am and 6:30am.”
Bob Fenton looked up at Standish over his shoulder and smiled sadly at him. “Knew Henry since I was a kid. My father was best man at his wedding.”
“I’m sorry.”
Fenton nodded. “Just catch the bastard, okay.”
Standish didn’t answer him. He couldn’t promise Fenton they would catch the man who had killed his father’s friend; there was no guarantee that they would. There were never any guarantees in this world.
“Where the hell is he?”
Standish’s head dropped towards his chest when he heard Chris Larabee’s voice but when his boss continued, “Where the hell is the incompetent asshole who doesn’t call for backup when he needs it?” he let out a sigh of relief. The man wasn’t looking for him; Larabee was looking for Wilmington and he sounded like he wanted to succeed where Sanchez had failed.
“You want me to go talk to him?” Dunne asked Standish.
Standish saw the expression Dunne was wearing, the young Detective wanted to talk to Larabee about as much as he did. “No . . . it’s my turn.”
“You sure, he looks like he’s ready to take someone’s head off.” Dunne was watching Larabee through the kitchen archway. Their boss was standing in the middle of the living room and it was obvious he was waiting for an answer to his question.
“Okay, you go and talk to him.”
“What . . .”
“Fine, I’ll go and talk to him.”
Standish didn’t move. He didn’t want to talk to his boss, not now and not during the next couple of days. He almost dug his heels in when he felt Dunne take his arm and push him towards the erupting volcano. No . . . not erupting, Larabee had already exploded, his cheeks now flushed with anger. Standish stood quietly on the edge of the living room and hoped to God that his boss didn’t see him standing there. He actually took a step backwards when Larabee did catch sight of him. Dunne pushed him forward, out of the kitchen and into the living room. Standish frowned when he saw what he knew was fear in Larabee’s green eyes. His boss wasn’t just angry; he was also scared shitless. Wilmington was a friend, a very old and dear friend and Larabee had almost lost him today.
“Where is he, Ezra?”
“He’s in the main bedroom with a medic.”
“He okay?”
“Nasty bruise on his chest. They want to take him in for an x-ray just to be sure. He won’t go.” Standish pointed to a hallway. “Down there, second door on your left.”
“You talk to him yet?”
“Yeah.” Standish was being careful; he didn’t want to say anything that would turn his boss’s anger toward him. He wasn’t in the best of moods himself and the last thing he needed was a tongue lashing from Larabee.
“And?” Larabee growled back at him.
Standish sighed and repeated everything Wilmington had told him. “We’ve put out a BOLO for Potter’s Jeep . . . nothing yet.”
“Think we should notify the public?” Larabee walked towards the kitchen, passing Standish on the way and stopped underneath the archway. He nodded to Dunne, spent a few moments taking in the grisly scene, and then turned so he was facing Standish.
“Yeah, I do,” Standish nodded. “The public might lock their doors if they knew a killer was roaming their friendly streets.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks.”
Both men looked into the kitchen when they heard someone’s cell phone, their expressions clearly hoping that it was important. Dunne answered his phone and shook his head at them, indicating that it wasn’t a call saying that someone had spotted Sanchez while the escaped criminal was conducting his own sightseeing tour of Four Corners.
“So,” Larabee was again staring at Standish, “Sanchez didn’t kill him because of a dog?”
“Apparently.”
“And Sanchez wants you dead before he leaves town.”
“Apparently.” Standish immediately tensed up when Larabee’s eyes narrowed in anger.
“Apparently?”
Standish shrugged his shoulders and said, “Yeah . . . apparently.”
“Standish! If you--”
Standish smiled with embarrassment when the theme to the ‘Magnificent Seven’ began to play from the inside of his coat pocket. “Sorry,” he reached for his cell phone. “Might be important.” He knew it was the wrong thing to do but he did it anyway; he turned his back to Larabee.
The caller ID told him that it was Dunne. Eyes glaring into the back of his skull stopped any thought of stepping back into the kitchen to ask Dunne, ‘what the hell he was doing’.
He flipped the phone open, put it to his ear and said, “Standish.” Then, as though he had a sudden revelation, he quickly turned to his boss and shook his head; much like Dunne had done a few moments earlier. The look on his boss’s face caused him to turn his back on Larabee for the second time in less than a minute. Larabee was going to kill him.
“Sorry Ezra, but I’m in the prime of my life . . . I’m not coming in there while Chris is in that kind of mood.”
“I understand, JD. Your balls only dropped this morning and you want to keep them that way.”
“Damn it, Ezra, can you be serious for once--”
“Sorry, JD, but if I get too serious about all of this, you’ll lose that last bit of innocence you have left. Now, tell me you’ve got something for me.”
“I’ve got something for you.”
“Good . . . tell me what it is!”
“Sanchez made fourteen calls to his landlord while he was behind bars.”
“Fourteen?” Standish noticed movement from his left and waited for Larabee to appear in front of him. It didn’t take long. “Any complaints on record from the landlord about that many calls.”
“Nothing.”
“Okay . . . thanks for the information, Detective Dunne . . . oh and JD, if you would like to take a defensive grip on your balls, you can join me in the living room.” Standish hung up, placed his cell back into his pocket, and gave Larabee the answer he’d been waiting for. “Sanchez made fourteen calls to his landlord from jail. We’re on our way there now.”
Larabee nodded and said, “Good. I’ll stay here and take care of the scene,” he looked towards the hallway, “and I’ll make sure Buck goes to the hospital.”
“Make an appointment for him to see the Department shrink while you’re at it. He’s going to need to talk to someone . . . you know, about being tongued by a golden retriever.”
“Yeah.” Larabee nodded in understanding.
“JD! Let’s go.” Standish called out to Dunne when his partner still hadn’t come out of the kitchen. He was about to walk away when he felt Larabee’s hand on his shoulder.
“Be careful, Ezra.” All the anger had left Larabee’s face. “Sanchez is a cold blooded killer. He wouldn’t have threatened to kill you if he didn’t intend to . . . kill you.”
Standish smiled and said, “You know me boss, always looking out for number one.”
Larabee grimaced at what he knew was a lie and allowed his Detective to walk away from him. When he saw Dunne, he stopped him the same way he had stopped Standish – with a hand to the shoulder. He almost smiled when Dunne jerked back in surprise. “You scared of me, JD?”
“Uh . . . I . . . boss, I--”
Larabee let him off the hook. “Watch his back, JD.”
“Will do, Boss.”
Dunne intended to watch Standish’s back, but sometimes life didn’t always look down on Standish with a smile. Sometimes it looked at him with extreme loathing.
Part One | Part Two | Part Three
Master Fan Fiction List
- Sequel to ‘A Murder Mystery’
Rating: PG Bad Language
Fandom: The Magnificent Seven
Category: Four Corners Detectives AU
Main Characters: Ezra and JD
Disclaimers: The guys are owned by CBS, MGM, Trilogy Entertainment Group, and The Mirisch Corp.
Notes: The April 2005 Challenge (the Mystery Challenge) - offered by Jesfrealo. Write a story where a mystery plays a key role in the story. Have one or any combination of the guys be the detective(s). It can be funny or serious and in any open universe. Extra points if you make an unusual pair of the guys work together to figure out the mystery (so not Chris and Vin or Buck and JD...). Have fun!!
Summary: Detectives Standish and Dunne hunt for a killer
Spoilers: None
Author's note: A BIG thank you and a bear hug to the person who nominated this story for a 2008 & 2009 MoM award!
Warning: Josiah Sanchez is the bad guy in this story!
Part Two
Buck Wilmington steered his patrol car into Potter’s driveway with the palm of his left hand. His right hand was resting on his thigh, his service revolver held within its grip. Brown eyes, covered with reflective sunglasses, scanned the yard and house in front of him.
Roses once carefully maintained, now dead, lined the front of the yard much like a picket fence. Potter had taken it upon himself to poison them after a different type of poison had taken his wife. Mrs. Potter – who had made the best peach pie this side of Denver – had died of breast cancer two years previously. The full, colorful flowers had been a strong reminder of his once beautiful wife, a reminder Potter didn’t want to live with, but for some reason he wasn’t able to rid himself of the dead plants. In a way it was another reminder; a reminder of what he no longer had.
Maxine, Potter’s golden retriever (only golden because the old sod had use hair dye to make the animal look more . . . golden), lay curled on her side in the middle of the yard, her tail wagging so hard there was a possibility that it was going to fall off. Wilmington was grateful the normally gentle breed wasn’t a guard dog – Maxine didn’t bark, never had and he was sure she never would. When he opened the car door, the dog shifted, and then jumped to her feet. The next thing Wilmington knew, he was being French kissed by the animal. He didn’t mind so much; it was the most attention he’d received from a female in the past week.
“Down, Maxine, before you manage to shoot my damn knee off,” Wilmington growled through clenched teeth. When the dog immediately obeyed him, he rubbed her ear with his left hand – grimacing when the dye came off on his fingers – then motioned for her to move away. The dog took a few backward steps and promptly sat on her butt, tongue hanging and tail still wagging. During the tongue licking and subsequent removal of said tongue, Wilmington hadn’t taken his eyes off the house; man was a damn professional that way, and he wasn’t going to let a human loving dog distract him.
“Where’s your owner, Maxine? He okay?” There was no movement, no other sign of life coming from the Potter home.
Wilmington turned the engine off and placed the key in the inside pocket of his black uniform jacket. He stepped out of the car, leaving the door open, and raised his gun; the left hand brought up to support the right, the barrel never wavering from the rust colored building in front of him. After two sidesteps towards the house, Wilmington realized the dog was following him.
“Stay, Maxine.”
Again, the dog obeyed the command. Wilmington smiled; it was obvious his animal magnetism caused the dog to obey his every word. If only he had the same control over men. Sleeping with the odd married woman wouldn’t cause him so much trouble if he did. There would be no more desk duty, or night shifts. Men would envy his animal magnetism instead of claiming he was full of crap.
He took another step and his right foot found a small mound of dog shit. He didn’t look on it as an omen that his life might be just about to turn to shit.
Quickly wiping it off, he continued toward the house. When he reached the steps leading up to the front door, he stopped and listened for any sounds coming from within the house or around it. There was nothing. After quietly climbing the stairs, he stood toward the hinge side of the doorframe, and not the center of the door.
Knocking on the door, he said, “Mr. Potter, Four Corners Sheriff’s department . . . Mr. Potter!”
After a few moments of silence, Wilmington reached across with his left hand and tried the doorknob. It was unlocked as it should be. Potter never locked his doors. Wilmington began to wonder if it was a bad thing, not having a guard dog and leaving your doors unlocked. Anyone could approach the house without Potter knowing and easily gain access to the dwelling.
He opened the door and pushed it hard enough to bang against the wall. The sound was too loud in the surrounding quiet, but at least he knew there had been no one hiding behind it. He entered Potter’s home, leaving the door open behind him. With his back to the wall, he moved quickly around the perimeter of the room, scanning every inch of it with his eyes. No one hid behind the furniture that was now old and tattered. Potter’s home had lost the clean touch of a homemaker.
The main living area secured, he moved to his right, towards the kitchen.
There was no door, a large archway being the only entry point to the kitchen; the Potter house didn’t own a back door. He stepped up to the left of the entryway and searched the visible areas of the kitchen. An old round, oak wood table sat in the middle of the room. Henry Potter occupied the one and only chair. Blood and brain matter lay across the table like a breakfast buffet waiting for someone to come along and enjoy its enticing aroma. Keeping his gun in its original position, he stepped into the room so he could fully survey it. It was empty – except for Potter.
“You should have secured the outside first.”
Wilmington tensed up at the sound of Sanchez’s voice. He forced himself to relax and spoke with enough authority in his voice to scare someone’s grandmother, “Four Corners Sheriff’s department. You’re under arrest . . . put the gun down and get on your knees.”
“Make me.”
With the very intention of doing just that, Wilmington began to turn towards Sanchez, only to find that Sanchez had the upper hand. No longer wearing the ugly orange jumpsuit that was normal prison attire – instead wearing clothes that were once owned by Potter – an armed Sanchez stood with his body turned sideways, feet slightly apart, and left hand supporting his right. The gun was aiming for a kill shot.
“You gonna kill an Officer of the law?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Sanchez nodded in the direction of Wilmington’s gun. “Drop it . . . now!”
“My gun is bigger than your gun, so how ‘bout you drop yours.”
“Cocky aren’t you.”
“So the ladies say,” Wilmington smiled. “They sure are going to miss me.”
Sanchez tilted his head to the left and frowned at the man who’s life he was about to take. “You’re pretty casual for a man about to die.”
“Everyone has to die,” Wilmington shrugged. “Even you.”
“You first.”
Wilmington’s eyes widened in surprise behind his sunglasses as he watched Sanchez smile and lower his gun, his forefinger slowly applying pressure to the trigger until the gun fired. The bullet struck Wilmington in the center of the chest, the bulletproof vest stopping the projectile from causing any serious damage, such as instantaneous death. Struggling for breath, he fell to his knees, his gun falling to the floor beside him. In a moment of shear panic, he searched for the blood his common sense knew wouldn’t be there. His fingers found the bullet lodged in the vest. Momentary joy filled him at the thought of still being alive, and then his senses brought him back to reality.
Just in time to see a boot-laden foot coming towards him. The kick to the chest forced him onto his back and away from his gun. He looked up at Sanchez through a pain-filled haze. The stubbornness he was born with, stopped him from flinching away from Sanchez when the man reached toward him, ripping the sunglasses from his face. He was trying to decide if he should kick out at Sanchez, knock the gun out of his hand, when the man stepped back out of reach.
“I like to look into a man’s eyes before I kill him.” Sanchez explained.
“And if . . . I closed . . . them.” Wilmington almost felt embarrassed by his inability to draw in a decent breath.
“Go ahead, I’ve seen them now.” Sanchez smiled then added, “Not as fascinating as Standish’s. Never seen green eyes like that before.”
“Really, I’ve never . . . noticed. More into the . . . ladies myself.” The tightness in his chest finally eased enough to allow him to take a deep breath.
“I’m going to enjoy killing that pretty boy.”
“Seriously, are you . . . gay? Because I have to say, it’s kind of making me cringe . . . hearing you talk about my boss . . . that way.”
“Any last words.”
“Can I get laid first, haven’t had sex in a week.” Wilmington smiled up at Sanchez. “Would like to go out on a high.”
“There’s a corpse in the kitchen . . . perhaps you would like to--”
“Shoot me now.” Wilmington closed his eyes. He wasn’t afraid to die but he didn’t want to give Sanchez the pleasure of seeing the life go out of his eyes. The bullet he was waiting for didn’t come. He frowned and exposed his brown eyes only to see that Sanchez was still standing over him but so was Maxine.
The dog had entered the room without either man’s knowledge and now here she was, tail wagging, and tongue lolling. The drool dripping from her chin was already forming a puddle on the ground. She took an unsteady step forward then pounced, her front paws landing on Wilmington’s already painful chest. Air forced from his lungs and out through clenched teeth caused a sound that Maxine took the wrong way. To the human ear, it meant; ‘get the hell off me’ but to Maxine it meant; ‘lick away, Maxine.’
She began licking Wilmington’s face in earnest.
“Dog likes you,” Sanchez was mildly amused at the way the bitch was licking the man’s face.
“All women do.” Wilmington shifted his head to the side to try to get away from Maxine’s enthusiastic tongue licking.
“Dogs are a good judge of character.”
“She doesn’t like you, then?”
Sanchez smiled and said, “All dogs like me, and I like all dogs. They love unconditionally. Doesn’t matter if you rape, kill . . . shoot a police officer. You treat a dog right and you have a loyal friend for life.”
“Shame,” Wilmington grunted when the dog put even more weight on his chest, “that you didn’t think of Maxine before you killed old Henry.”
“How about I think of her now.”
Wilmington frowned.
“Say hello to Standish for me . . . tell him that I plan on killing him before I leave town,” Sanchez began to move backwards, his gun never leaving its target, “and look after Maxine.”
Wilmington watched the killer back out of the house. When Sanchez disappeared from his sight, he struggled to push Maxine off his chest.
“Maxine . . . get the hell off me.”
The dog obeyed, even though it was obvious she didn’t want to. Wilmington ignored the eruption of pain in his chest when he pushed himself onto his knees. Refusing to take his eyes off the door – in case Sanchez came back – he searched for his gun with his hand. It was a long three seconds before he found it. He jumped to his feet and ran for the door, stopping on the porch to look for Sanchez. Wilmington heard the rumble of an engine before he saw Potter’s blue, Jeep Wrangler appear from behind the house. Wilmington raised his gun and opened fire. Two bullets entered the side of the vehicle, missing the front left wheel by two inches. Another bullet punctured the driver’s seat, also missing the intended target.
Wilmington watched as Sanchez fired his own round of shots into the hood of the police car as he drove past it. In retaliation, Wilmington continued to fire, not caring if he hit his own vehicle or not. He smiled when two more of his bullets hit the Wrangler then swore when he realised that Sanchez was going to get away. “Fuck!”
He watched with hopeless frustration as the Wrangler reached the road, turned left and sped up towards town. Wilmington felt something nudge his leg and he looked down to find Maxine staring up at him. “Don’t worry girl, I’ll take care of you.” He wiped a hand over the dog’s face then used the small radio handset clipped to a strap on his shoulder to call the station.
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Standish blinked when another camera flash burned his vision. His eyes watered, distorting the horrific image in front of him. Potter still sat where Wilmington had found him; slumped over in his chair at the kitchen table, brains that once held a bitter personality now spread out in front of him. Standish couldn’t take his eyes off the sickly illustration – it was like looking at a morbid painting; you just couldn’t look away from it. The bullet to the back of the old man’s head told him that Potter hadn’t known what hit him. It had been all over in the blink of an eye. Bile began to flee his stomach, crawling its way up his throat towards his mouth, but he managed to force it back down before it made an appearance for all to see.
“Sanchez didn’t have to kill him.”
Standish turned to Dunne and said, “This is life, JD. It’s senseless and it’s a waste.”
“He was a lonely old man who didn’t deserve this.”
“No, he didn’t.” Standish turned back to the scene in front of him. The small kitchen was now crowded with crime scene investigators and the coroner’s technician, who at that exact moment of time was removing a thermometer from Potter’s liver. Standish grimaced at the sucking sound then said, “Death would have occurred sometime between 5:30am and 6:30am.”
Bob Fenton looked up at Standish over his shoulder and smiled sadly at him. “Knew Henry since I was a kid. My father was best man at his wedding.”
“I’m sorry.”
Fenton nodded. “Just catch the bastard, okay.”
Standish didn’t answer him. He couldn’t promise Fenton they would catch the man who had killed his father’s friend; there was no guarantee that they would. There were never any guarantees in this world.
“Where the hell is he?”
Standish’s head dropped towards his chest when he heard Chris Larabee’s voice but when his boss continued, “Where the hell is the incompetent asshole who doesn’t call for backup when he needs it?” he let out a sigh of relief. The man wasn’t looking for him; Larabee was looking for Wilmington and he sounded like he wanted to succeed where Sanchez had failed.
“You want me to go talk to him?” Dunne asked Standish.
Standish saw the expression Dunne was wearing, the young Detective wanted to talk to Larabee about as much as he did. “No . . . it’s my turn.”
“You sure, he looks like he’s ready to take someone’s head off.” Dunne was watching Larabee through the kitchen archway. Their boss was standing in the middle of the living room and it was obvious he was waiting for an answer to his question.
“Okay, you go and talk to him.”
“What . . .”
“Fine, I’ll go and talk to him.”
Standish didn’t move. He didn’t want to talk to his boss, not now and not during the next couple of days. He almost dug his heels in when he felt Dunne take his arm and push him towards the erupting volcano. No . . . not erupting, Larabee had already exploded, his cheeks now flushed with anger. Standish stood quietly on the edge of the living room and hoped to God that his boss didn’t see him standing there. He actually took a step backwards when Larabee did catch sight of him. Dunne pushed him forward, out of the kitchen and into the living room. Standish frowned when he saw what he knew was fear in Larabee’s green eyes. His boss wasn’t just angry; he was also scared shitless. Wilmington was a friend, a very old and dear friend and Larabee had almost lost him today.
“Where is he, Ezra?”
“He’s in the main bedroom with a medic.”
“He okay?”
“Nasty bruise on his chest. They want to take him in for an x-ray just to be sure. He won’t go.” Standish pointed to a hallway. “Down there, second door on your left.”
“You talk to him yet?”
“Yeah.” Standish was being careful; he didn’t want to say anything that would turn his boss’s anger toward him. He wasn’t in the best of moods himself and the last thing he needed was a tongue lashing from Larabee.
“And?” Larabee growled back at him.
Standish sighed and repeated everything Wilmington had told him. “We’ve put out a BOLO for Potter’s Jeep . . . nothing yet.”
“Think we should notify the public?” Larabee walked towards the kitchen, passing Standish on the way and stopped underneath the archway. He nodded to Dunne, spent a few moments taking in the grisly scene, and then turned so he was facing Standish.
“Yeah, I do,” Standish nodded. “The public might lock their doors if they knew a killer was roaming their friendly streets.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks.”
Both men looked into the kitchen when they heard someone’s cell phone, their expressions clearly hoping that it was important. Dunne answered his phone and shook his head at them, indicating that it wasn’t a call saying that someone had spotted Sanchez while the escaped criminal was conducting his own sightseeing tour of Four Corners.
“So,” Larabee was again staring at Standish, “Sanchez didn’t kill him because of a dog?”
“Apparently.”
“And Sanchez wants you dead before he leaves town.”
“Apparently.” Standish immediately tensed up when Larabee’s eyes narrowed in anger.
“Apparently?”
Standish shrugged his shoulders and said, “Yeah . . . apparently.”
“Standish! If you--”
Standish smiled with embarrassment when the theme to the ‘Magnificent Seven’ began to play from the inside of his coat pocket. “Sorry,” he reached for his cell phone. “Might be important.” He knew it was the wrong thing to do but he did it anyway; he turned his back to Larabee.
The caller ID told him that it was Dunne. Eyes glaring into the back of his skull stopped any thought of stepping back into the kitchen to ask Dunne, ‘what the hell he was doing’.
He flipped the phone open, put it to his ear and said, “Standish.” Then, as though he had a sudden revelation, he quickly turned to his boss and shook his head; much like Dunne had done a few moments earlier. The look on his boss’s face caused him to turn his back on Larabee for the second time in less than a minute. Larabee was going to kill him.
“Sorry Ezra, but I’m in the prime of my life . . . I’m not coming in there while Chris is in that kind of mood.”
“I understand, JD. Your balls only dropped this morning and you want to keep them that way.”
“Damn it, Ezra, can you be serious for once--”
“Sorry, JD, but if I get too serious about all of this, you’ll lose that last bit of innocence you have left. Now, tell me you’ve got something for me.”
“I’ve got something for you.”
“Good . . . tell me what it is!”
“Sanchez made fourteen calls to his landlord while he was behind bars.”
“Fourteen?” Standish noticed movement from his left and waited for Larabee to appear in front of him. It didn’t take long. “Any complaints on record from the landlord about that many calls.”
“Nothing.”
“Okay . . . thanks for the information, Detective Dunne . . . oh and JD, if you would like to take a defensive grip on your balls, you can join me in the living room.” Standish hung up, placed his cell back into his pocket, and gave Larabee the answer he’d been waiting for. “Sanchez made fourteen calls to his landlord from jail. We’re on our way there now.”
Larabee nodded and said, “Good. I’ll stay here and take care of the scene,” he looked towards the hallway, “and I’ll make sure Buck goes to the hospital.”
“Make an appointment for him to see the Department shrink while you’re at it. He’s going to need to talk to someone . . . you know, about being tongued by a golden retriever.”
“Yeah.” Larabee nodded in understanding.
“JD! Let’s go.” Standish called out to Dunne when his partner still hadn’t come out of the kitchen. He was about to walk away when he felt Larabee’s hand on his shoulder.
“Be careful, Ezra.” All the anger had left Larabee’s face. “Sanchez is a cold blooded killer. He wouldn’t have threatened to kill you if he didn’t intend to . . . kill you.”
Standish smiled and said, “You know me boss, always looking out for number one.”
Larabee grimaced at what he knew was a lie and allowed his Detective to walk away from him. When he saw Dunne, he stopped him the same way he had stopped Standish – with a hand to the shoulder. He almost smiled when Dunne jerked back in surprise. “You scared of me, JD?”
“Uh . . . I . . . boss, I--”
Larabee let him off the hook. “Watch his back, JD.”
“Will do, Boss.”
Dunne intended to watch Standish’s back, but sometimes life didn’t always look down on Standish with a smile. Sometimes it looked at him with extreme loathing.
Part One | Part Two | Part Three
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