September, 2008  

She opened her eyes, sat up, and stretched her stiff muscles. A yawn escaped her lips, and she let her head fall back with a sigh. Then she scowled.

The sun was shining brightly, and the grass around her resting place was green and vibrant. She couldn't feel the physical heat of the sun, but from the appearance of the world around her she figured it was about late summer.

The stone at her back was the only thing she did feel, and she was surprised to find that its surface was a bit rougher than she remembered.

She turned around, eyeing the headstone curiously.

A lot of time had passed since she fell asleep it seemed. There was a bit of dead moss on her headstone, and a few small chips had been knocked clear at the edges.

Yes, she thought. Things have definitely changed. She ran her pale, ghostly skeleton fingers over the aged stone. How much time has passed?

She didn't know. But did it matter? If he was still alive, then she didn't care.

She grinned suddenly, the painful cleansing purity of the sun forgotten.

Tick tock, she thought. And she laughed.

Tick tock, goes the clock.

{ { o } }

"I'll be right back," Detective Kraig Garzon whispered. Then he rose from where he sat crouched behind the car and made his way into the fray. "Garzon!" Klocke hissed, watching his partner of one year run to his death.

"Garzon!" He yelled.

His partner ignored him and disappeared into the building. Klocke leaned back against the front tire of his truck, his heart racing and his frustration boiling over into anger.

And grief.

Not again, God. Please not again...

God apparently wasn't listening, because a few minutes later he heard faint shouts and then automatic gunfire. Garzon didn't have an automatic.

Klocke generally didn't curse or shout — or talk much at all, for that matter — but he felt that this was one of those situations where he could make an exception.

"Shit."

He could feel his partner's death like a physical pain, like a blade piercing through his heart.

But more prominent than the pain, was the anger.

Klocke could feel it, building and building and building up the pressure, till he wasn't sure whether he was going to explode or not.

Ana, the department psychologist, had told him all this mumbo jumbo about how holding in his emotions wasn't a good thing, that he should let them out more often.

Maybe Ana was right.

Klocke growled, a low feral sound that drew a few bewildered stares from his fellow officers.

He leaped to his feet and ran around to the back of the building. The back door was guarded, though not very well. The guard was lying facedown on the ground, a gun just a few feet from his outsretched fingers. Klocke knelt soundlessly next to him, pressing his fingers to his throat about where the jugular vein would be.

The man was still alive.

Klocke would have to give Garzon at least a little credit for not treating the situation like some sort of Die Hard movie.

Klocke picked up the dropped gun, tucking it into the empty holster under his arm. He still had his own gun cocked and ready, but it didn't hurt to have backups. He slipped into the building on silent feet, listening for trouble.

He was in a backroom, likely used for storage if the boxes were anything to go by. There was only one door down the adjacent hall, and it was slightly open. Lying against the floor opposite the door was Garzon.

His chest was riddled with countless dark red holes surrounded by more red stains. The blood was pooling around him like red glass, and some of it had splattered the surrounding walls in odd and stomach-churning patterns. His eyes were blank, staring glassily at nothing. His expression was one of mild surprise, like he had come home to find that someone had painted his house a different color while he was away.

Klocke felt sick with grief and anger, and he felt bile rise in the back of his throat. He forced it down. Goddammit kid, you should've listened.

He sidled up to the edge of the doorway, his back pressed against the wall so hard it was a wonder he didn't just become part of it. He cocked his head to one side and closed his eyes; partly to escape the sight of his dead partner, and partly so he could focus better on his hearing.

The first thing he heard was voices. Angry voices.

"What the fuck, man? You didn't have to kill 'im! You said no one would get hurt!"

"And no one did!"

"Bull shit! There's a fucking body out in the hallway!"

"I told you things could get rough, s'not my fault you're too dumb to think ahead!"

"This wasn't part of the plan! What about Frank? Huh? What happened to him? He was s'posed to be guarding the back door."

Carefully, Klocke peeked through the doorway. There were two men inside. One middle-aged, the other looked to be barely twenty years old. The older of the two was obviously the one in charge, and just as obviously the one who'd killed Garzon.

After some more yelling and cursing the younger of the two punched the leader. Klocke took that opportunity to step into the room and level his gun at them.

"Freeze! Police!" He shouted.

The older man shoved the younger one away and aimed his gun at Klocke. The world slowed to a crawl, and Klocke could see everything.

He saw the people cringing under the tables, amongst them were two mothers cradling small children that kept trying to see what was going on.

He saw the black tattooed cat on the young man's bicep, the holes in his jeans, and the frayed edges of his shirt fluttering as he fell.

He saw the beads of sweat on the older man's forehead, the wild anger and fear in his eyes, and how his forearm flexed ever-so slightly as he tightened his grip and pulled the trigger.

He saw the bullet that left his own gun.

And he saw the blood as he killed the man where he stood.

The older man's shot went wide, hitting something behind Klocke. He didn't look to see what it was. Instead he trained his gun on the young man where he'd tripped and landed on the floor.

"Don't move," Klocke ordered stoically.

{ { o } }

Klocke dropped his gun carelessly onto his desk. He sat down and pulling out some blank forms from one of the drawers and laying them out on his desk, but he didn't grab a pen. He just stared dully at them.

It should be easier now, shouldn't it? I should be used to this...

He buried his head in his hands and heaved a weary sigh. He suddenly felt much older than his thirty-nine years. He'd buried so many friends, so many companions... He'd also buried strangers, young foolish rookies who hadn't separated the movies from reality. They never got the chance to go places, do things.

Like Kraig Garzon. Twenty-nine. He left behind a wife, Beverley, and two little girls, Mackenzie and Rose. They were twins, barely a year old, and they were going to grow up without their father.

Thinking about all the canceled possibilities, the 'what if's, the stolen years... It hurt. Dear God above, but it hurt...

Klocke took a deep breath, held it for a second, then let it out in another tired and weary sigh. He could feel the weight of guilt on his shoulders like a physical thing, pulling him down, down, down, until he couldn't even look up for fear of falling beyond hope of recovery.

With agonizing slowness, Klocke reached for a pen and started on the paperwork that came with all cases, big and small.

He could at least attend the funeral.

{ { o } }

The man chanced a glance out his window. The kid outside had dyed his hair blue. He hated blue, so that kid might as well be the first in this town to go. Then he would be fearless.

Wait... Don't get ahead of yourself. This requires patience.

Of course. Patience. Then they would all be free.

This was going to be fun...