Breacher (Tom Keeler Book 2) by Jack Lively (reading well TXT) 📕

opened up and a month of mail sat there, which was exactly five envelopes. I unslung the backpack, unzipped it and shoveled the mail in.

I stood for a moment looking through a square window fit into the door. Parked cars and nobody walking in the darkness. No dogs. No bears. Not even a cat. I opened the door and stepped out to the sidewalk. I made it two steps, and a voice from my left said, “Nice and slow. Put the bundle down and get the hands up and out where I can see them.”

I turned my head and saw a uniformed policeman. He was maybe thirty years old with a face like a burger bun. The cop stood six feet away, pointing a Glock at my face. There was another guy behind him, older, maybe fifty and change. No uniform. The older cop stepped out to get an angle, he swung his gun at my chest.

The younger cop said, “Is this the guy?”

The older cop said, “Yup. That’s him.”

I said nothing. But I was beginning to get pissed off.

Fifteen

It was not just the two policemen outside of the Edna Bay Apartments, they had brought the whole crew. Must have moved in while we were on our way down the stairs. Across the street and to the right of the building entrance was an unmarked Ford Explorer. Two marked versions of that same vehicle had sealed off both ends of the block. I recalled my conversation with June at the SEAS office. Looked like Mister Lawrence had gotten a three-for-two deal from Ford, for the police vehicle upgrades.

I dropped the bundle and put my hands slowly in the air.

They turned me around against the wall and read me my rights. I was being arrested for murder. I looked over and saw Amber Chapman being taken away in handcuffs. We made eye contact in the brief moment before a cop’s hand ducked her head and put her into one of the prowlers.

The older guy spoke to the younger cop. “Do the GSR on him.”

The younger guy pushed me up against the unmarked Ford’s hood. He said, “Stay here.” A few moments later, he was back with a cardboard box. GSR stands for gunshot residue. The uniformed cop set up on the hood and tried to keep cool while fiddling around with the cheap-looking evidence testing kit. The older guy was leaning against the back of the car, sucking on a cigarette. When he was done, he flipped his butt and walked over.

“Make sure you do the lab test first, huh?”

“Yeah, Jim.”

After the lab test, they swabbed me for presumptive. I knew this because I’ve done it myself. We had higher quality kits in the military. But they performed the same function. Presumptive tests are for the field. They can tell you if the guy discharged a firearm recently, but you need the lab tests to verify the presumptive. The lab tests are more thorough. We hadn’t bothered with lab tests in Iraq or Afghanistan, nobody was going to have to prove anything in trial. Hadn’t bothered testing at all in Syria.

The presumptive came out negative. Good news for me, but evidently not good news for the policemen. The younger guy packed his kit away in the worn cardboard box. They put me in the vehicle.

The uniformed cop drove. Next to him was the older guy. From his voice I figured him as the detective who had found Jane Abrams’ body. Name of Jim, radio call sign thirteen. His sad eyes told me that he would rather be home in bed than in the police car. I was in the back separated by a wire grid. Both of them kept their eyes forward and their mouths shut. Which suited me fine, because I had no plans to engage in conversation.

The question on my mind was, how did they know I was their guy? One possibility was a security camera at Beaver Falls Lodge that I had missed. But if there had been a camera, they would know that I was not their guy, because they would have the shooter on video.

The other option was that someone had given the police my name.

Maybe it was Deckart.

Maybe he had discovered that I was not in fact working for Mister Lawrence.

Which would be easy to do, if he asked Mister Lawrence.

Then maybe Mister Lawrence had decided to take me out of the equation.

Drop the hammer on Jane Abrams and friends, set Keeler up for the fall. The only other person who both knew me and had a connection to the evening’s events was Amber Chapman. I had been with her the whole time, so I shelved the possibility that it was her who had set it up.

The follow-up question was easier. What to do? The answer was nothing. In the United States, there is no escaping police custody. You can try. You can even be successful on a tactical level, for a period of time. Long or short, it does not matter. Because in the end they will get you. And the moment you cross state lines it becomes a federal situation. Once they get going, the FBI is very good at what it does.

The young cop parked in front of the police station. The detective got out of the vehicle and jogged across the street. I watched him get swallowed into the station.

I figured it was a good time to sleep. So, I closed my eyes and pictured a HALO jump at night. Throwing myself into the dark, then arching and relaxing and falling through the nothingness. It was not a realistic dream. I didn’t land. There was no land. There was only air and nothing else. Nothing to break the spell of free fall. And no hundred and fifty pounds of gear on my back either. Somewhere in that free fall place, the older detective got back in the Ford. I registered that event. I even registered him speaking to the younger