desk chair, rubbing his sore knee. He slipped on reading glasses and read the reports stacked precariously high on his desk.
He’d never before let the paperwork get this far out of hand. What a difference a year makes.
He watched the deputies outside his office window as shifts changed. The casual glances in his direction. The concerned look on the faces of some; the wariness on the faces of others. He’d been back on the job seven months, but no one had forgotten what had happened last May. Nick found himself glancing at the calendar more often now, as the anniversary of the Butcher’s last hunt approached.
The Butcher wasn’t the only reason he kept looking at the calendar. Three weeks from tomorrow was the deadline to file for reelection, and he still hadn’t made his decision.
Frankly, he had no right to be sheriff. He should have resigned after he screwed up and lived to talk about it.
He didn’t think he could do it. Not again. He’d screwed up, and his error of judgment had not only almost cost him his life, but the lives of citizens he had been sworn to protect.
At the same time, he’d learned about both himself and the nature of violence in a way that could only benefit him as a sworn officer. He was torn. Though none of his relatives had ever been in law enforcement, being a cop seemed to be ingrained in him. He didn’t know how to do anything else.
Pulling his hand from his aching knee, he picked up a pen and signed reports, barely giving them the attention they deserved. Damn knee. He’d tossed out the painkillers as soon as he’d left the hospital last year, hating the ethereal feeling the medication gave him. He dealt with the pain. To remember? As punishment? Whatever, he preferred the pain to the vagueness that came over him when on medication.
One day at a time.
His phone rang, startling him. It was his private line. Few people called on it. Glancing at the clock, he saw that more than an hour had passed since he’d sat down. Had he really been staring at the same piece of paper for an hour? What was wrong with him?
He grabbed the receiver. “Sheriff Thomas.”
“Nicky, it’s Steve.”
His brother. He hadn’t talked to Steve in months. The last time they had had a real conversation had been just after Nick had been released from the hospital last summer. Nick had swallowed his pride and asked Steve if he had a couple weeks to come up and help. Steve had declined. He was taking summer classes at the university. When he offered to come up for a weekend, Nick said no. He hadn’t wanted to entertain his brother, he had wanted someone to talk to.
He’d ended up dealing with the aftermath of the Bozeman Butcher alone, and maybe that had been for the best.
“Nick? You there?”
“Yeah. What’s up?”
“Well, I need some help.”
Steve? The Desert Storm war hero and savior of an entire school of Kuwaiti children asking for help? Steve, his brother who never asked for anything since he could do everything himself?
“You need
my
help?”
“The police have been here. They think I killed someone.”
Nick didn’t say anything, couldn’t say anything. Steve? A murderer? Impossible.
“Nick?”
“What happened?” Nick asked.
“My ex-girlfriend was murdered. The police talked to me twice already, and they’re coming tomorrow to take my computer and search my apartment.”
“Do they have a warrant?”
“I didn’t do it! I told them to take anything they want. If it helps them to find Angie’s killer—”
“What did your attorney say?”
“Didn’t you hear me? I said I’m innocent. I don’t have an attorney. I don’t need an attorney.”
Nick closed his eyes. “Steve, call an attorney. Have someone present when the police arrive tomorrow to take possession of your computer. It’s your right.”
“I did call someone. I called you.”
“I’m not a lawyer, Steve.”
“I need your help. Please. The cops think I did it. They haven’t arrested me, they
He’d never before let the paperwork get this far out of hand. What a difference a year makes.
He watched the deputies outside his office window as shifts changed. The casual glances in his direction. The concerned look on the faces of some; the wariness on the faces of others. He’d been back on the job seven months, but no one had forgotten what had happened last May. Nick found himself glancing at the calendar more often now, as the anniversary of the Butcher’s last hunt approached.
The Butcher wasn’t the only reason he kept looking at the calendar. Three weeks from tomorrow was the deadline to file for reelection, and he still hadn’t made his decision.
Frankly, he had no right to be sheriff. He should have resigned after he screwed up and lived to talk about it.
He didn’t think he could do it. Not again. He’d screwed up, and his error of judgment had not only almost cost him his life, but the lives of citizens he had been sworn to protect.
At the same time, he’d learned about both himself and the nature of violence in a way that could only benefit him as a sworn officer. He was torn. Though none of his relatives had ever been in law enforcement, being a cop seemed to be ingrained in him. He didn’t know how to do anything else.
Pulling his hand from his aching knee, he picked up a pen and signed reports, barely giving them the attention they deserved. Damn knee. He’d tossed out the painkillers as soon as he’d left the hospital last year, hating the ethereal feeling the medication gave him. He dealt with the pain. To remember? As punishment? Whatever, he preferred the pain to the vagueness that came over him when on medication.
One day at a time.
His phone rang, startling him. It was his private line. Few people called on it. Glancing at the clock, he saw that more than an hour had passed since he’d sat down. Had he really been staring at the same piece of paper for an hour? What was wrong with him?
He grabbed the receiver. “Sheriff Thomas.”
“Nicky, it’s Steve.”
His brother. He hadn’t talked to Steve in months. The last time they had had a real conversation had been just after Nick had been released from the hospital last summer. Nick had swallowed his pride and asked Steve if he had a couple weeks to come up and help. Steve had declined. He was taking summer classes at the university. When he offered to come up for a weekend, Nick said no. He hadn’t wanted to entertain his brother, he had wanted someone to talk to.
He’d ended up dealing with the aftermath of the Bozeman Butcher alone, and maybe that had been for the best.
“Nick? You there?”
“Yeah. What’s up?”
“Well, I need some help.”
Steve? The Desert Storm war hero and savior of an entire school of Kuwaiti children asking for help? Steve, his brother who never asked for anything since he could do everything himself?
“You need
my
help?”
“The police have been here. They think I killed someone.”
Nick didn’t say anything, couldn’t say anything. Steve? A murderer? Impossible.
“Nick?”
“What happened?” Nick asked.
“My ex-girlfriend was murdered. The police talked to me twice already, and they’re coming tomorrow to take my computer and search my apartment.”
“Do they have a warrant?”
“I didn’t do it! I told them to take anything they want. If it helps them to find Angie’s killer—”
“What did your attorney say?”
“Didn’t you hear me? I said I’m innocent. I don’t have an attorney. I don’t need an attorney.”
Nick closed his eyes. “Steve, call an attorney. Have someone present when the police arrive tomorrow to take possession of your computer. It’s your right.”
“I did call someone. I called you.”
“I’m not a lawyer, Steve.”
“I need your help. Please. The cops think I did it. They haven’t arrested me, they
Similar Books
