Summer Angel

One When the call came over the radio about a possible drunk and disorderly near the Hood Canal Bridge, Ben wondered if it would be too late to call June when his shift ended in an hour. Probably, he thought and turned his patrol car north toward the bridge. He doubted she’d mind. Dinner with her and Aelissm last night had been wonderful—just like the old days before college and careers and distance had stolen so much time from them—and he looked forward to a repeat. June wouldn’t be heading back to Montana for at least two weeks, and Aelissm had recently withdrawn from her summer classes in Seattle, and he fully intended to make the most of that. He pushed his thoughts and memories aside as he pulled into the gas station. Sure enough, a plainly inebriated man staggered out of the convenience store, pausing momentarily to grip the metal edge of the glass door and regain his balance. Ben noted the unkempt brown hair, grimy white T-shirt, and ragged jeans. Ben guessed the man was in his mid-thirties, but he looked older; the wear and tear of a rough life distorted the youth of his face. He was a smallish man, standing only an inch or two over five-and-a-half feet with the kind of thin, ropy musculature that disguised a surprising strength that immediately became evident when he straightened and slammed the door with a bellowed curse. Down on his luck? Ben wondered, swallowing the stab of pity. Unsnapping the leather guard on his holster, he stepped out of his car. Adrenaline trickled through his veins, heightening his senses. “Evening,” he called pleasantly to the man. The man looked up at him with bloodshot brown eyes and snarled. The back of Ben’s neck tingled as the trickle turned into a flood and primal instinct drove any thoughts but survival from his mind. His heart pounded, and seeing the flash of bright metal, he dove behind his patrol car just as the first shot whizzed by him. Another shot and another cracked in the still evening. Ben yanked his g*n out of its holster and edged around to the passenger side. Carefully opening the door, he reached for his radio. “Shots fired! Shots fired!” He relayed his information and location, then knelt beside his car, using it as a shield. The man swayed drunkenly, glaring with his pistol shakily aimed in Ben’s direction. “Drop it!” Ben bellowed. “Get on the ground! Now! Face down on the ground!” The shooter didn’t seem to hear him. Please don’t make me shoot you! The man fired again, and one of the convenience store windows shattered. The clerk inside screamed. Moments later, another shot boomed before the echoes of the last had died away, and the slug ricocheted with a zing off a concrete parking block before tearing across Ben’s thigh. Ignorant of the pain, he braced his forearms on the hood of his car and trained his g*n on the man. “Drop it, goddammit! I will shoot you!” For one long, agonizing moment, the man paused, standing as still as a statue. Ben took aim at his leg, intending to disable him. Just as he squeezed the trigger and the g*n bucked in his hands, the man stumbled. Oh, God. Ben flailed awake with the gunshot echoing in his mind. He stared blindly into the dark room and quivered, his skin damp with cold sweat. He sat helplessly paralyzed as the memory continued to unfold, and in horrifying detail, he saw the bullet slam into the man’s chest, watched blood bloom on the dingy white t-shirt, and the g*n slip from the man’s hand as his legs folded beneath him. He was dead before he hit the pavement. The only clear memory he had of what happened in the following hours and days was of later that night when he’d stood in Bill Granger’s office staring at an eleven-year-old boy with blond hair and tears spilling from frightened blue eyes. That memory was the sharpest of them all and sliced him more deeply each time he recalled it. The horror of killing a man was nothing compared to the guilt that had crashed through him as Aelissm’s uncle—a man Ben had known as a close family friend for years before he’d joined the sheriff’s department—debriefed him. The man he’d shot was John McKindel, and the boy was his son. Now, because of Ben, the boy was no one’s son. Bill had conducted the investigation into the shooting and reported that Ben had acted well within his duties and the law, but that didn’t matter. Ben absently traced his thumb over the smooth, four-inch-long white scar on his left thigh. The bullet had burned a shallow furrow across his leg a hand span above his knee, and he was lucky it was the only one that had struck him. But that didn’t matter, either. Two weeks past his twenty-fifth birthday, with only three of the many years he’d hoped to serve as a sheriff’s deputy behind him, he’d killed a man and—so much worse—destroyed a young boy’s life. Ben sagged back to the mattress and covered his face with his shaking hands. Luke Allen McKindel. He was tiny for an eleven-year-old, Ben had thought, barely four and a half feet tall, rail-thin, and pale. The boy had looked at Ben, and for the briefest moment, they had locked gazes. Even now, nearly five years later, Ben wanted to retch at the fear and uncertainty in those blue eyes. He glanced at the obscenely perky green numbers of his bedside clock; it was half past four in the morning. With a grunt, he flipped back his blankets and pushed himself out of bed. His golden retriever lifted his head and whined softly. Smart dog, Ben thought. You know when I’m down. He patted the dog’s head, and Casey thumped his tail slowly. “I’ll be okay, Case. Just another bad dream. Stay. Go back to sleep.” Casey put his head on his paws again, but Ben sensed those watchful brown eyes on his back as he walked away. He found his way into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He reached blindly for the jug of water in the painful light and fumbled with the cap. At last, he tipped the bottle back and let the frigid liquid slide down his throat. “This has gotta stop,” he muttered. He swallowed the rest of the water and closed the fridge. “That’s three times in a month.” He wandered into the wide living room and turned on the lamp beside the couch. Despite the nausea that still churned in his gut, he smiled when he picked up the picture on the end table. His mother had taken it years ago at a picnic just after his graduation. Aelissm stood behind him giving him rabbit ears, and in his arms, he held a laughing June. He’d swept her off her feet, and the surprised smile on her face was one of his most cherished memories of that day. There were other pictures of them scattered around his house, and he walked around, glancing from one to the next, allowing the fond memories to envelope him and chase away his nightmare. Like a breath of cool wind on a stagnant summer day, understanding embraced him. He knew what he needed. He had to escape the constant reminders of what he’d done that night, and there was only one place he wanted to go—home to Northstar, Montana. He’d spent the first eight years of his life there, and though he’d been gone close to twenty-two years now, it was still the place his heart yearned to be. Besides, June and Aeli were in Northstar. The last time he’d seen them was that wonderful night before the shooting. No, that was wrong. He’d seen June briefly a week or so later, but he didn’t think that counted because they hadn’t spoken more than a handful of words, and he had turned away, afraid that he’d find his own assessment of what he’d done reflected in her laughing blue eyes. That would have destroyed him. He’d missed her especially in the week since the last nightmare. He really could have used her friendship over the last four and a half years; she would have known what to say and do to help him see what everyone else had tried to tell him, that he shouldn’t feel guilty for any of what had happened that night. He could have called her or visited her at any time, but that fear of her hating him had prevented him from picking up the phone. Now he wondered if there was anything left but to chance losing one of the best friends he’d ever had. He shook his head to dispel the morbid musings. Climbing back into bed, he closed his eyes, determined to finish the night in peace. Keeping June’s smiling face in his mind for reassurance, he spent the remainder of the small hours of the morning pondering his options. As dawn slowly lightened the world, he settled on a course of action, and there was a blissful lessening of the tension in his chest. Maybe he’d just walk up to the manager of Donovan’s Bar and Grill and give his two weeks’ notice. So what if it seemed rash? The owner had thought the same three years ago when Ben had turned down a promotion to manager. To be honest, Ben hadn’t planned to stay at the restaurant a year, let alone four. He sat up, amazed it hadn’t occurred to him sooner that he could just leave. Of course, there was still the chance that he wouldn’t be able to stay in Montana. What if he couldn’t find work? What if it wasn’t what he expected? His sister did not regret moving back, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t, so he’d be smart and keep up on his rent and bills. Just in case. Even as he thought it, it felt like a waste. He wouldn’t be coming back. No matter what happened, he’d find a way to make it work. Two weeks, he told himself. In two weeks, I’ll be home again. As the final bell rang, June smiled at her students and told them all to have a good weekend. When the last had filed out of the room laughing and talking, she sighed and gathered the towering stack of schoolwork she needed to take home with her. She had six class periods’ worth of quizzes, vocabulary, end-of-chapter reviews, and labs to grade, and she wouldn’t get to start on it until late tonight after she got off work at the Ramshorn. And the kids think answering all of the end-of-chapter review questions is a lot of work. Normally, Marvin and Mary Struthers, who owned the Ramshorn, made sure she had Fridays off to get a jump on her grading, but that wasn’t going to happen tonight because their new hire had decided to quit by not showing up to work. It was bound to be busy, too, and she doubted she’d have much opportunity to sneak in some grading between serving and cooking. The Marsh Ranch and the Crystal Peak Ranch were moving cows from winter pastures to spring allotments, so the ranch hands would likely be stopping in for dinner and coffee after. Then there was the large group arriving from Oregon for a rustic corporate retreat, and they would need to be checked in and fed as well. Of all the nights for someone to quit! And where was her son? Glancing at the clock, she saw that ten minutes had already passed. He was usually here by now. Why’d he have to be late today? Right then, he popped through the door, grinning, and her resentment vanished. It was rare that she could stay angry with him for more than thirty seconds—not that he ever gave her much reason. She wasn’t mad at him, anyhow. That smile was so open and infectious and all the sweeter for having been so rare in the first months after he’d come to live with her. “Sorry I’m late, Mom. Mrs. Ellsworth wanted to talk to me about my paper.” “What did she have to say?” Ruby Ellsworth was notoriously difficult to please, especially where Luke was concerned because he preferred science to her subject. By the way he was grinning, however, the English teacher must have said something good. “I got an A on the paper. Best grade in the class. She said she was really impressed.” “About time,” June muttered. She hugged her son. “What’d her prodigy get?” “A-minus.” June indulged herself with a smug smile. “So, that means you have an A in her class now, right? Since you were only a percentage point below.”