Falling Read online

  My strongest memory of that day was not how devastating it all was, or how frightened and upset my sister and I were. No, what I remember most clearly was how safe I felt in that police officer’s arms.

  We were given a very bare-bones explanation for that day from our mother, but no specifics and no blame was attached. None of our questions were answered, and eventually we stopped asking. Our father had never come home permanently again following that day, and we saw him very rarely. It was only later that he came through with some answers.

  My mother ditched the man she’d had the affair with. There had been no other men, but she’d never once explained herself, and my sister and I were resentful and silent, our relationship with her strained and difficult. We never forgave her for breaking up our family. She seemed completely indifferent to our judgment of her.

  For my sixteenth birthday, my father deemed me old enough to be told the truth, took me out to dinner and attempted to explain what had happened. His explanation, though, served only to irritate me: A rushed marriage because she was pregnant with me, followed by two years of bliss, until she became pregnant again, whereupon their relationship began to disintegrate, verging toward distant. It became clear to me that neither of them had really wanted children, but once they’d had them, they tried to make the best of it. And failed.

  “So your marriage fell apart because you had us?” I asked, bright enough to figure that one out.

  “No, no,” he assured me. “She had an affair, that ended our marriage.”

  “That’s not the same thing,” I stated, my voice low and harsh. “Did your marriage fall apart because you had us?”

  He could only look at me, mouth working, nothing coming out. I was crestfallen.

  “You never wanted us.” The hole inside me created by his leaving widened and gaped; I felt I might just fall into it, be swallowed by it. Of course, later, when I was a bit older, I realized their marriage suffered because they were not suited for each other. But at sixteen, such wisdom eluded me.

  “That’s why we hardly ever see you,” I accused.

  “Amy, no, stop,” he finally managed to say. “That’s not—I love you. You’re my daughter.”

  “How can you say that? How can you love someone, but not want them around?”

  “Honey, please understand—”

  But I’d had enough. “Understand what?” I shouted. “You’re the adult and you don’t even get it. How am I supposed to?”

  His words seemed to fail him once more. He sat there, doing his imitation of a dying fish, and at that moment I despised him.

  I leaned forward. “You make me sick.”

  “Now, Amy— ”

  “No! Shut up!” I shouted back. “I don’t want to see you again! Ever! Stay away from me, and stay away from Anna.”

  These words surprised him into complete silence. I abruptly slid out of our booth and stormed for the door. He didn’t call after me, nor did he follow.

  From that moment on, it was just my sister and me. Our mother was a peripheral presence at best, our father finally completely absent. They provided for us financially, but we relied on them for very little else. Anna and I took care of each other. At eighteen, I enrolled in a two-year associate degree program at the local community and technical college as part of the requirements for the police academy. I stayed at home for my sister’s sake, but at the age of twenty I was ready to apply to the police department, and I decided to move out. Anna was still a minor, just past seventeen, and while I could have been her guardian, I knew I wouldn’t have the time or attention to properly monitor her. It was just for the year and for the most part, things worked out well. Until the week after her eighteenth birthday, when I came upon her hitchhiking. And even that ended up working out, once I’d helped set her up in a neighboring city.

  I was with the police department for eight years. I killed two men during the latter part of that time. I received a commendation for the first killing, and a dismissal from the department for the second, though not immediately, and certainly not couched in anything as innocuous a term as “dismissal.” But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  Every once in a while I’d volunteer to help fill out the police presence at events in the city. One fall, when I was twenty-six, I joined five other officers at a conference held at the convention center. There, a panel of seven individuals listened to and discussed the various arguments either for or against people in same-sex relationships receiving the same employment benefits as their straight counterparts. The conference was a public forum and reporters, photographers and videographers crowded in the front row or on the floor before the speakers, who sat at a table on a raised platform. Off to one side of their table was a podium where those so inclined could step up and speak their piece.

  My job was to stand near the back of the room; the floor sloped downward toward the stage area so I could easily look down on the audience in case of troublemakers. None were actually expected, but that’s what a police presence is for, after all. I wasn’t in charge of screening or searching the press corps, so I wasn’t the one who let the guy with the sawed-off shotgun, buried in amongst a slew of video equipment, slip in with the rest of them. I was the first one to mark him, though.

  He was practically nondescript, thinning brown hair, an obvious paunch, wire-rimmed glasses. I could only see him from the back or in profile. His black polo shirt and trousers were oversized, baggy and rather sloppy. That was what drew my attention to him. That, and the sheen of perspiration that glazed his face and scalp. The others in the group of media were all smartly dressed, even if it was only khakis and polo shirt or pullover. All were presentable and professional looking. Not one of them, from what I could see from my vantage point, was perspiring.

  He stood behind a video camera mounted on a tripod. I assumed it was running, as I’m sure everyone else did. But he was fidgety, restless, and every once in a while he would crouch and place his hands on something before him. My view was blocked by those seated in the front row, and so I descended a few steps lower for a closer look. I was vaguely aware that the discussion on stage had gotten quite lively, a couple of raised voices, a handful of protests from the audience. I let it slip over me as I repositioned myself for a better look.

  Five steps below my original station, I could see what he kept reaching for: a black, elongated equipment bag, large, bulky, presumably for his camera gear. I assumed he had a press pass; he couldn’t have gotten in without it, and as he bent once more to his bag, I saw the pass on a lanyard around his neck. But something about him was not sitting well with me, regardless of the proper credentials. I decided to watch him more closely.

  Just as I reached this decision, I saw him reach into the bag. He smoothly pulled out something my brain at first refused to acknowledge, and slowly he began to rise from his crouch. Then my brain clicked, and I recognized the sawed-off shotgun for what it was. My entire body felt as if it had received an electric shot.

  “GUN!” I yelled and raised my Glock without remembering even reaching for it.

  Several things happened at once, all in the space of two or three seconds. People screamed, some jumped to their feet to run, some dropped to the ground for protection, and in front of me, the gunman stood and raised his shotgun. He’d lost the element of surprise, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him. He didn’t even turn to look at me, just brought the shortened weapon to his hip. He didn’t seem to have a particular target. Apparently the entire panel was his target. He wouldn’t even have to aim; he was so close he just had to pull the trigger. The damage and injuries would be devastating. So I shot him.

  I believe that if I’d thought before shooting, I would have been too late to prevent the damage he’d intended to wreak. So I didn’t think; I brought my weapon to bear and snapped off a single shot. Perfect marksmanship. The bullet took him in the right temple. He dropped like a black, saggy bag of potatoes, without getting his own shot off. I stood there in disbelief for a sec
ond or two longer, and then turned and heaved my lunch onto the stairs behind me.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Upon her return from her trip to Charlotte, she thinks long and hard on what she has learned, and what she has in mind. She comes to the conclusion that the decision, whether to proceed or not, has already been made. All that is left is to properly prepare.

  First, a job. She has no skills, other than those acquired from her computer classes. As it turns out, not every job requires a specific skill set. Some jobs require punctuality, responsibility, a certain amount of strength, focus, and an easygoing nature. So it is with the relatively new and popular BBQ joint that has opened in a developing commercial district near the bus station. Unlike many other such places purporting to be “Real Southern BBQ,” this one does not use gas to fire their pits and cook their meats. This one uses hickory and oak wood, burned down to embers; those embers are then shoveled into the pit, twenty feet wide, four feet deep, three feet high, above which the meats, placed on racks, cooked slowly, thoroughly, and fragrantly.

  This then, is where she gets her first job, starting the fires at five-thirty every morning; prepping the shoulders, ribs, and butts of pork, the legs and thighs of chicken, and the breasts of turkey; shoveling and distributing the embers into the pit so the heat is evenly balanced. It is hot and sweaty work, but she enjoys the physical labor, the cleansing heat, the solitariness.

  The day shift trickles in at various times; she has nothing to do with most of them beyond greetings and the occasional response to a question. There are two exceptions: the kitchen manager who hired her, a friendly, laid back guy of average height and rugged good looks, whose friendly nature and ready sense of humor set her instantly at ease; and one of the bartenders, an ex-college football player who sports broad shoulders, a shaved head, the straightest, whitest teeth she has ever seen, and who always goes out of his way to come back and say a few words to her before his shift starts.

  It doesn’t bother her that she basically has no friends. She’s not exactly the sharing sort, nor is she interested in hanging out with people she doesn’t know, and who don’t know her. Of course this isolation is self-defeating, and she knows it, but she cannot be bothered to attend to it. There are other, more pressing matters on her mind. Specifically, appeasing Kate and Jillian the infrequent times they express concern over her friendless status, her lack of plans to attend some level of education beyond high school, and her decision to move out on her own.

  The decision to move out is not, in fact, an easy one to make. She very much loves life at her aunt’s house. But she is eighteen years old, and contemplating a highly irregular course of action; she does not plan to involve her family or tell them about it.

  The second thing she must do is find an apartment. She refuses to leave Kyle behind, and ends up renting a garden apartment with a higher rent than she had planned for. But it has a patio, a lovely view of the mountains, and is close to the dog park and walking trails. They are both happy with it.

  The third item on her list is to acquire a handgun. She has thought long and hard on this aspect of her plan, which simply will not work unless she has a weapon. She spends many restless days and nights coming to terms with what that means. In the end, since she has no interest in buying a traceable, registered weapon, and since she is not of an age to do so at any rate, her purchase of a Sig Sauer P220 is illegal. The seller of the gun doesn’t seem worried about this at all. He takes her money with no comment. Considering what she has in mind, she soon realizes that the illegal purchase of the handgun is merely a means to an end, and hardly a concern at all.

  All that remains now is to familiarize herself with her weapon. She signs up at the one shooting range she can find that does not require her to show a registration. It’s an hour drive for her, but she gladly makes the trip twice a week, tying it in with a long hike along the French Broad River afterward for her and Kyle. Improving her hiking skills is something else she must work on. Her plan involves driving to a certain part of the country and then leaving her car behind, hitchhiking the rest of the time. She has no intention of making it easy to track her movements.

  Once she has everything in place, she hunkers down to implement her plan with the same single-mindedness she attaches to every task she intends to complete. She tries very hard not to spend too much time thinking on it. She does not, however, completely succeed.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It was mandatory that I report to the police psychologist at least once following that shooting. I ended up seeing him once a week for three months. I was very shaken, more by the fact that I’d reacted so quickly and coldly. I’d never thought I could be so brutally efficient, and it troubled me.

  I wasn’t the only one so troubled.

  Even though there was an inquiry and I was cleared completely of any wrongdoing, the shooter’s family thought I was a cold-blooded killer, saying I’d reacted hastily and unreasonably, in spite of the fact that he’d had a loaded shotgun. Still, he’d not gotten a shot off, and so my actions were considered ill advised and suspect. His parents slandered me in the local paper; they swore to see justice served. Eventually, it was revealed that their son was a diagnosed schizophrenic who often skipped his meds; he was well known for being homophobic and racist, often picking fights when out in public with whatever minority group he came across, and he had run into trouble with the police on several occasions for public disturbances. Also, I was awarded a commendation for exemplary behavior while on duty. After that, all talk of a lawsuit ended.

  My girlfriend of two years suddenly became wary of me. I was more disappointed than hurt. Alice refused to discuss the incident, other than immediately afterwards, and then only to know precisely what happened, so we wouldn’t need to discuss it later. She flatly told me this, and I thought it made sense. Why would we talk any more about it? That’s what the shrink was for. That, however, was not exactly the case.

  The psychologist’s job was to ensure that I would continue to be an asset to the force, that I wouldn’t be a threat (a ticking time bomb was the term he used) to the public or myself. He did his job adequately; he was not the problem. I was. I didn’t know how to talk about it, but I showed up for my appointments, and I suppose I must have convinced him, myself, and everyone else that I was fine, that I would be fine. And I was. For almost a year.

  The night that changed everything, I was on patrol with my partner, Andrew Sink, or Kitch, as he was better known. A tall, lanky guy, just turned thirty, with a shock of red hair and a splash of freckles over his once-broken nose, he’d been ribbed almost his whole life with kitchen sink jokes. At some point Kitchen became Kitch, a name he’d grown fond of it, and it stuck. On the night in question, I was riding shotgun. It was a Tuesday, late, after two a.m. We were cruising the downtown area, checking the back alleys. It was slow and tedious work. We were nearing the end of a run and I shone the swivel headlamp down the alley. The beam knifed through the murky dark and at first I saw nothing. We were trained to view one side and then the other, so nothing would be missed. I took my time, careful as always. Even so, I almost missed it; I almost gave the word to move on.

  But then a box tumbled into the alley, and I snapped the light back to shine on a whole stack of cardboard boxes next to a BFI dumpster. I saw a flash of bare skin, a weakly kicking leg, shredded nylons, scrabbling work boots, sagging jeans. I saw enough in two seconds to make me yell to Kitch, “Got something!” Enough to propel me out of my seat, and out the door, with a shouted, “Hey! Police!”

  Kitch braked and parked; I heard his door open as I sprinted down the alley, gripping the butt of my holstered Glock. The disturbance was midway down the alley. Another flurry of movement, and more boxes tumbled. Then a disheveled looking fellow scrambled out, trying to button his jeans as he backpedaled unsteadily. He looked like the proverbial deer caught in the headlights.

  “Don’t move!” I shouted. “Police! On the ground! Now!”

  He d
id no such thing. Eyes wide, he spun clumsily and ran. Releasing the Glock, I pulled it free. As I reached the dumpster, I dodged around the boxes and saw a woman lying there, struggling weakly, dress hiked up, nylons and undergarment torn. Even in the poor light I could see the head wound, the blood covering her face. I knelt at her side, spoke reassuringly and quickly checked her over. She was crying; her breath hitched in and out in great whoops. But I could tell she was in no grave danger, and that was what mattered.

  I looked up the alley. Her rapist was attempting to run while still struggling with his pants. He was less than half a block away. I stood, smoothly raised my weapon, took careful aim, exhaled, and fired. A single shot. He went down, his forward momentum causing him to slide on his front along the pavement. Had the alley not been paved, I’m sure he would have plowed a furrow in the earth. He lay there, unmoving, which suited me just fine.

  I turned back to the woman. Kitch had reached her and knelt at her side. He looked up at me, his features bland.

  “No second warning, huh?” he asked.

  “Fuck that noise,” I said.

  The woman lived, though she was likely emotionally as well as physically scarred. And there was an inquiry, but this time I didn’t receive a commendation from the police department. This time I received an indefinite paid suspension, pending further notice. My gun and badge were taken away.

  “Did he have a weapon?” the Chief of Police asked.

  “No. Not that I could see.” It wouldn’t have mattered if he had. I still would have shot him.

  “You didn’t see one, or check for one. You shot a man who was running from the scene, who hadn’t threatened you or your partner, and you killed him. Why?” The chief knew better, but he was just doing his job.

  “He had just raped a woman,” I said.

  He looked at me for the longest time, but I had nothing more to say, and he knew it. He finally just gave a soft snort and shook his head.