Rockhounds 2: Diamond in the Rough Page 2

  "Considering the simplicity of the job,” I began, willing some calmness into my voice and pushing the urge to snap Crazy John's neck back down into my subconscious, “and the skills of your team, it shouldn't take them long at all. I've got enough funds to cover what surely would be a minor..."

  "Stow the crap, GI.” Crazy John snapped. “You need help on this job, and you know it. Iffn’ you want my boys at your back, you're gonna have to spend some time on yours.” His hand dropped to his crotch, patted the erection already tenting out the front of his filthy camos. “Capeesh?"

  Oh, shit, I thought. Here we go again.

  Chapter Four

  Let's go way back in the day here for a minute.

  Take it as a given that I wasn't much of one for school. Books ain't my thing, despite the amount of time I spend hauling them around for Matt. In fact, I reckon I managed to go a full four years without cracking anything more challenging than a long neck.

  Once senior year had been and gone, though, that didn't leave me with a mess of options. College wasn't gonna happen, and at that time, I had no interest in being Uncle Sam's bitch.

  What'd that leave? Well, there's always farming, riding herd of three, four hundred acres of corn until you go stark raving mad in the shadow of the silo. That didn't appeal much. For minimum wage and all the contempt I could stomach, I could get a gig at the drive in, checking cars and slinging popcorn.

  Or I could be a cop.

  Broward County's Sheriff's Department always had a real high turnover rate. They were chronically short-staffed, though I didn't know that at the time. All I knew was that when I showed up to take the exam, the clerk seemed powerful pleased to see me.

  Stupid bastard me, I thought it was because he wanted me. Little did I know.

  I passed the exam, of course. Since then, I've seen the kind of exams other guys had to take to get a spot in the Sheriff's department, and believe you me, I didn't take no test like that. An autistic monkey could have passed the test I took—there was even a question about Hill Street Blues on there, for God's sake.

  I passed because that was gonna make Sheriff Clemson Daltry happy, and if there was one thing that the Broward County civil service was all about, it was about keeping Sheriff Daltry happy.

  * * * *

  He was a short little bastard, too, built like a brick shithouse. You might know people who work out, but I guarantee they ain't got nothing on Sheriff Daltry. Six hours a day on the Nautilus, and the man was muscled everywhere. Even his eyebrows bulged, flexing like miniature biceps every time he had what passed for a clever thought.

  His eyes weren't mismatched like Crazy John's. They were blue, a bright, almost Arctic blue, clear as the sky over Eielson AFB on a summer morning.

  It's a color I've ever since associated with sadistic insanity, but I reckon I'm getting ahead of myself here.

  * * * *

  Lucas Barnes had been in the Sheriff's department a full three years by the time I joined up. We'd never really known each other before—he'd been about to graduate when I was finishing my freshman year, but now we became comrades, joined by circumstance.

  The pair of us were both a good ten years younger than everyone else. Most times, that alone would have been enough to force us together, but we had another unifying bond. Sheriff Daltry was fascinated with the two of us—or more correctly, with his power over the two of us.

  "Lucas,” he'd drawl, strolling into the office mid-morning. “Where the hell is my coffee?"

  Lucas would run for it—poor bastard brewed a fresh pot every quarter hour on the mark, just to ensure it would be fresh when the boss-man arrived. Didn't matter. Sheriff Daltry would take a big old swig and promptly spit it out again, cussing in Lucas's general direction.

  "What the hell is this shit?” he'd rage. “You too fucking dumb to make a simple cup of coffee, boy?"

  While Lucas would stammer an answer, Sheriff would pull a duty roster from his pocket and study it carefully. “Alright,” he'd eventually growl, after studying the indecipherable scrawl only he could make out, “Let's see where I can send you two fuck-wits so you don't screw everything up."

  * * * *

  It didn't matter. No matter where we went, it all went wrong. If we patrolled the back country and nothing happened, he'd rage at us for what we ‘obviously’ missed. If we responded to a call and brought the perps in, there would be something wrong with the paperwork—we'd filled something out wrong, or it was right but it took us too damn long to do it.

  Daltry would have us in his office, door closed. We'd stand at attention, hands tight behind us, while he'd bitch us out.

  He'd get angrier and angrier, yelling louder and louder, face getting more beet red with every syllable. We'd start these sessions as ‘stupid, sorry bastards’ and end them as ‘syphilitic cunt-licking horse fucking excuses for hemorrhoids'.

  At least, that's where it would end for me. At some point, just when I thought that Daltry's head was going to explode from the sheer pressure of his rage, he'd turn to me and order me out of his sight. The rest of his wrath was reserved for Lucas, he'd say. Lucas had been on the force longer. He should have known better.

  Half an hour, forty-five minutes, even an hour later, Lucas would emerge from Daltry's office. Sometimes there would be shiny trails, marking the passage of tears down his cheeks. Sometimes he'd be walking funny. Only one thing was certain: every time Lucas left the Sheriff's office, he'd head straight for the bathroom.

  He'd spend the next twenty minutes throwing up.

  Every day it went on like this, every day for six months. I bit my tongue at first, not knowing what the hell I was supposed to do. But it wore on me; getting reamed out and then watching him turn on Lucas. Watching Lucas standing there, just taking it, day after day after day.

  Finally, one day, mid-rant, I lost it.

  Sheriff Daltry was in fine form, ripping us a new asshole for failing to pick up the seedy elements he was sure lingered on the back roads of Broward County. We'd been on patrol for ten hours straight, in the driving rain, and failed to see a single soul.

  "I'd reckon that was because you weren't trying hard enough,” he shouted, nose half an inch from mine. “Too busy pulling each other's pud to pay attention to the needs of your community!"

  "Listen here, Sheriff,” I snapped back, puffing up at least three inches taller than I normally stood. “That's enough!"

  "Parker...” Lucas began, the need for caution clear in his tone.

  He never got a chance to finish his sentence. “Get your sorry pansy ass out of here, faggot,” Daltry growled at him. “Donovan and I are gonna have a word."

  * * * *

  "You reckon you're a big boy there, Donovan.” The door had barely closed when Sheriff Daltry laid into me. “But you're not so big that I can't put you down like the sorry bitch you are."

  The roundhouse caught me by surprise, as did the steel toes that glanced across my temple. Stars were circling my head when Sheriff Daltry landed square in the center of my back, a full two-fifty compressing my kidneys into pate.

  "Why don't you tell me what you want, big boy?” he hissed in my ear.

  "I want you to stop fucking yelling,” I growled back, working through the pain to toss him off and roll onto my stomach. “I'm so goddamn sick of your mouth."

  "Really?” It was that shit-eating grin again, that one I hate so much now. “And yet I find I'm pretty interested in your mouth."

  Before I even knew what was going on, he was sitting on my chest, fly ripped open, the stubby sausage of his cock jabbed halfway down my throat.

  I started to fight, when the distinctive sound of a hammer being pulled back clicked in my ear. “You think about biting me, boy, and I'll have Lucas cleaning your brains off of my wall.” The steel was dead cold against my skull. “With his tongue."

  * * * *

  After that, I'm sure there were shiny trails running down both of my cheeks. A belt of bruises around my kidneys made i
t hard to walk at all, much less with dignity. And when I got to the bathroom, I couldn't stop throwing up.

  Things went downhill from there. At least they got way worse for me. On some level, they got better for Lucas: Sheriff Daltry was splitting his attentions between the two of us now, meaning he only caught it half the time.

  Course, that meant I got it the other half.

  "I hate that son of a bitch,” I'd told Lucas. We were walking across the yard to our squad car, about to spend another day patrolling the ass end of nowhere. “If it was up to me, I'd lay his ass out."

  "Shhh...” Lucas nodded toward an open window. “He's gonna hear you. There'll be hell to pay."

  He was right about that last bit, though he never got no chance to know it.

  Chapter Five

  It was a domestic violence call. These things are the worst, any cop will tell you that. Man turns on his wife, that's ugly enough, but when a man turns on his wife and the kids try to break it up, that's when the shit rolls right downhill.

  Can't say that I blame little Junior Tucker. His dad Eldon had done a job and a half on his Ma, busting her head clean open so you could see clear down to the bone. Her arm was broke in at least three places.

  Junior, who was the wrong side of thirteen then, had tried to stop Eldon and had been knocked half-stupid for his trouble. Half stupid was still bright enough to get hold of the old man's shotgun, and by the time we got there, it was all over but the mopping up.

  "Son of a bitch,” I said when we got there, doing all I could to keep my breakfast in my belly. The first time you see the top of somebody's head blown off, you're not likely to forget it. Eldon's scalp was flipped right over, like some bloody obscene hat. One eye was clean gone, the other obscured by a mess of tissue that curled forward from Eldon's forehead, a horrific fashion choice if I do say so.

  "I didn't mean to, I didn't mean to...” Junior couldn't say nothing else. The shock wouldn't let him. His grip on the twelve gauge was powerful strong—when I finally pried his fingers off I was honestly surprised to see he hadn't compressed the stock none.

  "I know, boy, I know,” I told him. The shotgun went to one side—I'd have to bag it as evidence later—but right now I wanted to get him out of the room, away from the gory scene. “Let's get clear of here, get you calmed down.” I gave Lucas the nod. “My partner will take care of your Mama."

  "But what about my sisters?” he wailed, tears breaking through his shaky composure. “I's gotta take care of them. Momma...” he said, and now the tears were flowing heavy, “she ain't in no condition..."

  "That ain't your worry no more, you little bastard!” I'm still not sure what startled me more, Eldon's raspy words or his rapid roll, snatch and grab of the shotgun. He had it cocked and was pulling the trigger before I fully realized that that stupid bastard wasn't quite dead yet.

  Lucas caught on quicker, diving in to push Junior Tucker out of harm's way. He caught the full brunt of the blast right in the side, lead tearing through him, sending a crimson wash of life over us.

  Junior hit the ground hard but alive, Lucas, not so much.

  When I was done, my partner wasn't alone in his mortality.

  * * * *

  "Let's go over this one more time.” There was a stack of papers on Sheriff Daltry's desk a full foot high, all the documentation that was part and parcel of an officer shooting. “Alright, Donovan?"

  "No.” I stood up, brushing my hands down my pants legs. They were still tacky with Lucas's blood, long hours after the paramedic had taken one look, shook his head, and closed those brown eyes forever. “I got nothing more to tell you. We've done this three times, and I'm tired. I'm gonna go home,” I continued, pausing while an involuntary shudder went through me, “and get cleaned up."

  "You seem to think you're in charge of that decision, boy.” Sheriff was quiet, but firm. “But ‘til I get a real clear understanding of how you managed to let your partner get killed, you ain't going nowheres."

  "Let my partner get killed?” Tired as I was, there was still enough energy in me to launch across Sheriff's desk, get myself a good handle on his tie. “Listen, you stupid bastard, Eldon was dead. I thought that, Lucas thought that. Junior blew his lid clean off with a twelve gauge from six feet away."

  "But you didn't check.” Daltry didn't blink. Cool as a freakin’ cucumber, which was pretty impressive considering his life was quite literally in my hands.

  "No, I didn't check. He was dead!” All the times Sheriff had lit into my ass, I don't think he'd ever yelled as loud as I was right that minute. “I had a little kid clearly in shock with a loaded firearm in the middle of the scene. That was my priority. I didn't want two fatalities when we already had one."

  "But that's what you wound up with, Donovan.” Sheriff reached up and knocked my hands away from his neck. “That's exactly what you wound up with."

  His words were a kick to the gut, forcing the air clean out of my lungs. My partner was dead simply and solely because I never checked that Eldon Tucker, who should have been done for, was in reality actually deceased. I had Lucas's blood on my hands, pure and simple.

  Sheriff Daltry didn't give me much time to reflect on my guilt. He wasn't none too pleased that I'd gotten up in his face, and he'd never been one to keep his displeasure to himself.

  "You stupid bastard!” He led off with a backhand, hard enough to snap my head to the left and knock two teeth loose. “Who the hell do you think you are, talking to me like that?"

  He stood up and pushed, sending me ass over appetite off of his desk. I hit the ground hard, but long familiarity with that tiled floor spurred me back to my feet in a right hurry. By the time Sheriff came round that desk, I was ready for him.

  Uncle Sam teaches you a lot. As much as I bitch about life in the military, I've got to hand that to the Marines. When they teach you to fight, they teach you well. When I went up against Sheriff Daltry that day, I didn't know half—hell, I didn't know twenty-five percent—of what I know now. If I had, things would've ended up different. I'd probably be Sheriff of Broward Country right now, sending my own hand picked crew of pretty boys out on patrol every morning.

  But I didn't know then what I know now. As a result, Sheriff Daltry kicked my ass.

  He didn't just kick my ass. He lectured while he was pounding on me, which made the whole thing worse.

  "What is an officer's first obligation?” Knuckles flattened against my cheekbone, forcing a red burst of pain across my vision. “To protect his partner!"

  "We,” rabbit punch to the ribs, “take", another quick jab, followed by a solid blow to the stomach, “care of our own!"

  "You always,"—and now he was whaling on me while I vomited, a mixture of hate, bile and blood splashing onto my boots—"contain the perpetrator!"

  "What were you thinking?” Punch merged into punch, blow into blow, until it was all just a big wave of pain. The pain wrapped round me, embraced me, slid over my skin and down into my lungs, until all I was was hurt. I couldn't hear anything, I couldn't see anything: it was just a crimson wash of agony consuming me.

  Pain held me up, assisted by Sheriff Daltry's grip on my collar. Pain threw me down, with a little help from the Sheriff, and I was flat on the floor, stomach flattened in the warm pile of my own mess.

  It was at that moment that I thought I was going to die.

  Salvation came from a surprising direction, as Sheriff Daltry's sharp-edged words cut through the clouds and slid directly into my brain.

  "I've told you time and time again, boy, that you gotta cover your partner's ass.” His hand thrust underneath me, fist first, until I felt his fingers tugging at my belt. “If you can't figure out how to do that for yourself, I guess I'm gonna have to illustrate the concept."

  He pulled my pants down, stripping me like a rag doll. I knew what was coming, but I just couldn't do anything—at least not until I felt the steel toe of his boot kicking my legs apart.

  "This is how you cover an ass, Don
ovan.” I heard his zipper coming down, felt the last bit of bile bunching up in my stomach. “This is how we take care of our own."

  * * * *

  Later, I learned that that distinctive crunching sound that filled the room is what you expect to hear when you break somebody's nose. At the time, however, all I heard was Sheriff's surprised bellow of pain. All I saw was his face suddenly bright red with blood. I thought I'd killed the sorry son of a bitch.

  And I ran like my ass was on fire.

  Chapter Six

  "Boy, who'd you piss off?” the Marine recruiter looked me up and down real slow. “Or did you get yourself run over by a bus on your way here?"

  I looked at him, this man who could have been my grandpappy, and knew he wasn't gonna buy no bullshit story. “I went rounds with Sheriff Daltry,” I said, “and I need to get the hell out of here."

  That's when the recruiter looked at me again. This time he took in that I was wearing a uniform and that there was more than a little blood—mine and Lucas’ both, at this point—all over the front of my gear.

  "You're a cop?"

  "Was.” I looked toward the door. There was a squad car going real slow down the main drag, but they didn't seem to be looking toward the recruiter's office. “Way things are going, I'll be a corpse before dinner."

  "You realize,” he said, pulling open a filing cabinet drawer, “that if I sign you up, there's no guarantee you still won't wind up dead."

  "Yeah, but it'll be later rather than sooner."

  He smiled. “Christ, you're halfway to being a Jarhead already."

  "Just get me out of here, man."

  "Sign here.” He pointed at the dotted line. “Bus leaves town at three o'clock."

  I signed, just as the black and white hung a uey in front of the fountain at the ass end of town and headed back up the street. “And what am I supposed to do about them?"

  The recruiter smiled. “Don't you worry one little bit about them. You're government property now, buddy boy."