Dry Stone Walls, page 19
They fired together.
SIXTY-SIX
“That’s not too bad,” the emergency room doctor said. “It just creased your shoulder.”
“You mean it was an actual flesh wound?” Tru asked.
The doctor winced and said, “I didn’t want to say that, but yeah.”
Tru moved his arm. “It hurts.”
“Yeah, well,” the young doctor said, “flesh wound or not, you got shot. It’s gonna hurt. Just wait here and I’ll get you something.”
As the doctor left, Chief Powell said, “You’re probably used to this.”
“What do you mean?”
“Gettin’ shot at? Shootin’ bad guys? I mean, a New York cop like you?”
“Chief, you watch too much T.V.,” Tru said. “I was a Detective. I detected. And then I was an administrator. In all my years on the job I never discharged my weapon, let alone shot somebody. And I never got shot.”
“Really?”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Tru said. “How’s Rocky?”
“Scalp wound, headache, maybe some whiplash,” Powell said. “He’ll be okay.”
“He saved my ass, climbing out of that car when he did. And Pete Hancock?”
“I’m sorry, Captain,” Powell said. “He wasn’t wearin’ a belt. He broke his neck.”
“Damn!” On top of the fact that Agent Miller was going to be pissed, Tru felt responsible for the young man’s unfortunate death.
“And the man I shot?”
“He’s in surgery,” Powell said.
“Is he gonna make it?”
“I don’t know. I been here with you.”
“Let’s go and see.” Tru got down from the examining table, grabbed his shirt, winced as he put it back on.
“The Doc told you to wait here.”
“He can still give me pain killers later,” Tru said. “Where is he?’
“They’re workin’ on him down the hall.”
Powell led the way down the hall. They looked through the windows of the double doors and saw a group of people in white working on the man Tru had shot.
“Too bad somebody didn’t call nine-one-one sooner than they did,” Powell said. “The State Police might’ve got there in time.”
“He’s your killer, Chief,” Tru said. “The man who actually killed Wilson with a stone and buried him under those rocks. If he dies…you should go in there and get a dying declaration.”
“I don’t think we’ll really need one, Tru,” Powell said.
“Why not?”
“Well, I’ve been waitin’ for the right time to tell you,” Powell said. “That’s not a professional hit man you shot.”
“No? Then who is he?”
Powell nodded his head toward the man on the table and said, “That’s Bill Granger.”
SIXTY-SEVEN
Tru was sitting on the porch three days later as Chief Powell pulled up in his car.
“All ready?” the Chief asked.
“Yep. The house is clean, I’ve left a note for the owners telling them what I did to their car, and I’m packed.”
“Watch your shoulder. I’ll get it,” Powell said, picking up the large suitcase. “You really had to tell them what happened to their car?”
“I thought about not saying anything, but come on. It was nearly totally.”
“You paid to have it fixed.”
“They’d find out the first time they tried to sell it,” Tru said. “Anybody who knows cars can tell it was repaired and painted. No, I had to tell them.”
“Did you tell them how much you paid to have it fixed?”
“No.”
Powell put the suitcase in his trunk, and then they got in the car.
“Thanks for the ride to the airport,” Tru said.
“Least I could do,” Powell said. “You made me look good, puttin’ three people away for murder and conspiracy.”
Tru shook his head. “Still can’t believe I bought all that guff about Granger dying of cancer. He was in Homer’s house all along.”
“Hey,” Powell said, “he came back after years, suddenly with the balls to want his revenge, but he hid behind Julie and his dad.”
“And they chose to help him.”
“Well,” Powell said, as they pulled away from the house, “Homer felt guilty about not knowing the boy for so long, and Julie never did admit to what a shit lady’s man Granger was. They decided to help him, and they’re payin’ for it.”
Eventually, Powell pulled the car onto the highway and headed for Lexington. On the other side of the highway Tru saw the point on the off ramp where Rocky’s Volvo had overturned, and the shooting had taken place.
“How did Agent Miller take the news of Pete Hancock’s death?” Powell asked.
“Not well,” Tru said.
“She’s got to know you didn’t kill the kid on purpose.”
“Oh, sure, but she still wasn’t happy that I couldn’t fulfill my end of the bargain.”
“So now you’re on the FBI’s shit list?”
“Not quite,” Tru said. “She managed to turn the girl we talked about, the receptionist. She wanted to help after she heard about Pete’s death.”
“So at least you don’t have to look over your shoulder for the FBI. You ever find out from Max what he did or said to Granger to make him leave?”
“Max hasn’t spoken to me since the day you locked Julie up,” Tru said. “It seemed like he didn’t care, but…” Tru shrugged. “I think he might be madder at me about poor Pete.”
“She’s still his daughter, you know,” Powell said. “I have a married daughter, myself. Blood’s thicker, and all that.”
“That’s how Homer felt, too,” Tru said.
“What would you do for your family?” Powell asked.
He thought about his daughter and grandson and said, “Anything.”
“Me, too.”
“Except for my asshole of a son-in-law,” Tru added.
Powell nodded, said with feeling, “Me, too.”
About the Author
Robert J. Randisi is the author of the “Miles Jacoby,” “Nick Delvecchio,” “Gil & Claire Hunt,” “Dennis McQueen,” “Joe Keough,” and “The Rat Pack,” mystery series. THE HONKY TONK BIG HOSS BOOGIE, the first book in the Auggie Velez Nashville P.I. series, appeared in 2013. UPON MY SOUL is the first book in the “Hitman with a Soul” Trilogy. The second book is SOULS OF THE DEAD. His recent novel MCKENNA’S HOUSE has been called is best book yet by several reviewers. He is the editor of over 30 anthologies. All told he is the author of more than 600 novels. His “Housesitting Detective” series will begin appearing from Dagger Books in 2015, with the first book, DRY STONE WALLS. Randisi is the founder of the Private Eye Writers of America, the creator of the Shamus Award, the co-founder of Mystery Scene Magazine, the American Crime Writers League, and Western Fictioneers.
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