Chapter 2

Now, as he made his way to his cruiser parked in the back parking lot of the church, he tried to shut out the static in his head. Getting in, Michael took a minute to clear his head before turning the key in the ignition. The radio that always seemed to buzz and crackle incessantly was blessedly quiet.

Suddenly it was a drink he craved, not a run, and he knew exactly where to get one. He owed Angel a slap on the back and a beer to boot. Michael waved back to Mr. and Mrs. Collins, an elderly couple he passed on his way out of Saint Anne’s back parking lot. It was a small town and Michael had gotten to know many of the inhabitants over the years. Sometimes he wished he hadn’t. There was nothing wrong with them acknowledging him. It was that he had been seen, and being seen meant that somehow his being there would set tongues wagging, which was something he had unsuccessfully been trying to avoid. Things had gotten strange since the incident and he wondered if he would ever feel normal again.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath as he maneuvered his cruiser onto the street and back toward the station, which was only about a mile away.

He got there in record time, parked, got out, and headed inside. His fellow officers had put him on a shelf since the incident, which made it easy for him to get to his locker, change out of his uniform, and head back to his truck with little to no communication aside from polite, if slightly restrained, interactions. That was fine with him. He had lost the social spark that he’d once had and, in losing it, had lost the need for it as well.

Sergeant Kinter stopped him at the back exit. Michael favored this route as it was closer to the parking lot and hardly anyone used it. For Kinter to be there at all meant something was up

“Sergeant,” Michael said. He adjusted the duffel back containing his dirty uniform, duty belt, and his gun.

“Today’s your early day, Carmac?” Kinter asked, glaring at Michael.

The air reeked of Kinter’s cheap cologne.

“Yes, sir.” Michael sniffed and fought back a sneeze.

“I want you to go home and get some rest.” Kinter moved closer. He searched Michael’s face. “You off the booze?”

Michael nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“I hear otherwise,” Kinter said. He moved closer so his nose nearly touched Michael’s. “If I hear you’re back on the bottle, we’re gonna have a problem. Problems are something you cannot afford, Carmac.”

Michael stayed still. “I’m not drinking.”

“Yeah? If you’re hanging out with Angel, I’m not so sure.”

Michael didn’t answer. A trickle of sweat ran down his back and he did his best to stifle a shudder.

“Get out,” Kinter said, not moving, “and when you do, stay away from the fucking booze.”

“I will, sir,” Michael said, hating the fact that his life had brought him to this moment and wondering how much longer he could stand in this man’s presence before he lashed out.

Kinter stepped aside.

Michael pushed open the door.

“I mean it, Michael.”

Michael let go of the door and walked slowly to his truck, instinctively knowing Kinter was watching.

Once he got there, he looked back and saw Kinter standing outside the station staring at him. Michael fished his keys from his pocket, opened the door, and put the duffel bag carefully on the passenger-side seat.

“What a fucking prick,” Michael muttered as he put on his seat belt and started the truck. Kinter hadn’t moved. Michael didn’t bother waving as he pulled out of the parking lot and onto the street.

Halfway down the street, heading up the hill and away from the station, Michael screamed. He screamed until he couldn’t see the police station in his rearview mirror.

At some point he must have started crying, because when he stopped to collect himself at a tiny gas station that also served as a convenience store, he wiped tears from his face. Surprised, he swiped his sleeve across it and took a few breaths.

He’d gotten himself together enough to open the door and saw two fellow officers exiting the store. He hadn’t noticed their cruiser parked alongside the building farthest from him.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, hoping they hadn’t seen him, but they had. From the looks on their faces, they looked about as thrilled to see him as he was to see them.

They finally waved and Michael sighed, grabbed his wallet, locked the truck, and jogged over.

“How’s it going, Carmac?” Officer Fitzgerald asked.

“Tired,” Michael answered honestly.