Read Online The Trophy Exchange by Diane Fanning - Free Book Online
Authors: Diane Fanning
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her emptiness to Chester. She sat for hours, patting his head, scratching his chin, stroking the length of his soft gray back and white belly. As she poured out the contents of her fevered soul into his ears, he purred. He purred through all three months of her exile in the seventh circle of hell.
He didn ’ t even mind when she hugged him tight as the memory of that dreadful day ran through her mind again. Dawn was just breaking in the post-Second World War housing boom neighborhood of old brick terraced houses on that sultry summer morning. A lone jogger pounded her way down the pavement. The air was already thick with humidity. The day promised to be unbearable once the sun rose high in the sky.
The neighborhood was quiet, its hush broken only by the echoing slaps of the runner ’ s feet on the sidewalk. From a distance, she spotted large shapes on the lawn of the end house on the corner lot. They looked out of place. As she got closer, her strides shortened, her pace slowed. Then she came to a complete stop. The shapes were bodies – the bodies of a woman and a young girl. She stepped on to the grass, knelt by the adult and pressed her fingers to the woman ’ s throat.
The coldness of the skin repulsed her. She found no pulse. She saw no sign of life. She looked over at the little girl but could not bear the thought of touching a child in death. She slipped her cellphone out of her pocket and punched 9-1-1.
Black-and-whites and two fire and rescue emergency vehicles swarmed the block , then the assistant coroner arrived in he r marked white panel truck . She knelt by the body of the child and turned her face up to speak to Lucinda when suddenly the first shot rang out from the window by the front door. The bullet hit the assistant coroner right above her left ear. Lucinda hit the ground and drew her gun. She wrapped an arm around the injured woman and crawled on one elbow dragging them both toward the house and under the cover of a scruffy line of boxwoods.
Lucinda saw the two bodies on the lawn jump from impact as more shots rang out. She checked the assistant coroner ’ s pulse – nothing. Silence slapped the street. Then the muffled voices and electronic squawks of radio communication peppered the air.
“ Lieutenant? ”
Lucinda raised her head and saw Sergeant Ted Branson across the lawn on the side of the street.
“ Yes, ” she responded.
“ Were you hit? ”
“ No. But the coroner ’ s down. I think she ’ s gone. Who ’ s the shooter? ”
The first responding officer stood up from his crouched position behind his car. “ We thought the house was empty, Loot. We knocked, rang the doorbell, no response. ”
A loud shattering of glass broke off their conversation. The first responder didn ’ t take cover fast enough. A bullet passed through his shoulder and knocked him to the ground. A flurry of fire followed. The rear window of one patrol car shattered. The tire of another vehicle blew out with a bang. Bullets pinged into the sides of several cars and thunked into the trunks of trees.
On the opposite corner a bevy of neighbors gathered, too far away for the shooter ’ s aim but close enough to get hit by a stray or ricocheted bullet. Lucinda waved them back but no one there paid any attention to her.
She crawled to the corner of the house and looked down the side. She saw the tip of a weapon sticking out of a basement level window. She rolled, sprung to her feet, rose to a crouched shooter ’ s stance. The early morning sun glared on the remains of the window. She could not see the person with the weapon. She just aimed down the barrel of the shooter ’ s rifle and pulled the trigger. The thunderclap of the discharged bullet filled the air. She dropped and rolled back to the cover of the front of the house.
As she moved, she heard a thud. Got him, she thought. She closed her eye to focus her ears on any sounds in the house. She heard nothing.
Once again, Ted shouted out. “ Are you
He didn ’ t even mind when she hugged him tight as the memory of that dreadful day ran through her mind again. Dawn was just breaking in the post-Second World War housing boom neighborhood of old brick terraced houses on that sultry summer morning. A lone jogger pounded her way down the pavement. The air was already thick with humidity. The day promised to be unbearable once the sun rose high in the sky.
The neighborhood was quiet, its hush broken only by the echoing slaps of the runner ’ s feet on the sidewalk. From a distance, she spotted large shapes on the lawn of the end house on the corner lot. They looked out of place. As she got closer, her strides shortened, her pace slowed. Then she came to a complete stop. The shapes were bodies – the bodies of a woman and a young girl. She stepped on to the grass, knelt by the adult and pressed her fingers to the woman ’ s throat.
The coldness of the skin repulsed her. She found no pulse. She saw no sign of life. She looked over at the little girl but could not bear the thought of touching a child in death. She slipped her cellphone out of her pocket and punched 9-1-1.
Black-and-whites and two fire and rescue emergency vehicles swarmed the block , then the assistant coroner arrived in he r marked white panel truck . She knelt by the body of the child and turned her face up to speak to Lucinda when suddenly the first shot rang out from the window by the front door. The bullet hit the assistant coroner right above her left ear. Lucinda hit the ground and drew her gun. She wrapped an arm around the injured woman and crawled on one elbow dragging them both toward the house and under the cover of a scruffy line of boxwoods.
Lucinda saw the two bodies on the lawn jump from impact as more shots rang out. She checked the assistant coroner ’ s pulse – nothing. Silence slapped the street. Then the muffled voices and electronic squawks of radio communication peppered the air.
“ Lieutenant? ”
Lucinda raised her head and saw Sergeant Ted Branson across the lawn on the side of the street.
“ Yes, ” she responded.
“ Were you hit? ”
“ No. But the coroner ’ s down. I think she ’ s gone. Who ’ s the shooter? ”
The first responding officer stood up from his crouched position behind his car. “ We thought the house was empty, Loot. We knocked, rang the doorbell, no response. ”
A loud shattering of glass broke off their conversation. The first responder didn ’ t take cover fast enough. A bullet passed through his shoulder and knocked him to the ground. A flurry of fire followed. The rear window of one patrol car shattered. The tire of another vehicle blew out with a bang. Bullets pinged into the sides of several cars and thunked into the trunks of trees.
On the opposite corner a bevy of neighbors gathered, too far away for the shooter ’ s aim but close enough to get hit by a stray or ricocheted bullet. Lucinda waved them back but no one there paid any attention to her.
She crawled to the corner of the house and looked down the side. She saw the tip of a weapon sticking out of a basement level window. She rolled, sprung to her feet, rose to a crouched shooter ’ s stance. The early morning sun glared on the remains of the window. She could not see the person with the weapon. She just aimed down the barrel of the shooter ’ s rifle and pulled the trigger. The thunderclap of the discharged bullet filled the air. She dropped and rolled back to the cover of the front of the house.
As she moved, she heard a thud. Got him, she thought. She closed her eye to focus her ears on any sounds in the house. She heard nothing.
Once again, Ted shouted out. “ Are you
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