From a Dead Sleep (3 page)

“I hear Moses Jones gave ya quite a spankin’ last night!” Milo hollered, following up with his trademark obnoxious laugh that resembled more of a howl.

The wide suede cowboy hat he always wore made Milo look like an old gold prospector from another era. At the same time, his weathered skin and the space at the center of his crooked teeth invited comparisons to a desert lizard.

Without wasting another second, Sean’s large hand latched onto the outside handle and quickly yanked the truck’s driver side door open. Milo’s eyes bulged in surprise and his laugh disappeared, not expecting such an intrusion.

“Move aside, Coltraine!” Sean snarled before shoving his open hand firmly into Milo’s shoulder.

“Hey!” Milo screamed, his voice reaching even a higher pitch as Sean shoved him effortlessly across the bench seat.

Milo was a very short, top-heavy man with little coordination. His legs kicked wildly in the air as he struggled to keep from being knocked to his back.

“What in the hell are ya doin’, boy?”

The truck never even came to a stop. It coasted slowly as Sean lifted himself up into the driver’s seat with a hardening grunt. The door closed behind him.

“Sean! Dammit!” Milo yelled, after managing to lean forward enough to latch his frail and freckled fingers onto Sean’s wrist.

Sean effortlessly shook his arm free and stomped his foot down on the gas pedal. The sudden jolt of acceleration forced Milo’s body to sink deep into his seat. Sean’s legs barely fit around the steering wheel, and his knees dug into the dashboard. He felt like a canned sardine and quickly grabbed a side lever above the floorboard and yanked on it to slide the bench seat back.

“Jesus, Milo! How short are you?” Sean grumbled more in the form of an accusation than a question.

A cardboard air freshener, shaped like a pine tree but having long ago lost its scent, swung from the rearview mirror as wind and dust filled the car through the open window. Two empty boxes of cheap cigarettes fell off the dashboard and onto Sean’s lap.

“I ain’t playin’ ‘round!” Milo threatened after finally managing to sit up straight. “Pull over and get outta my truck!”

Milo’s breath smelled strongly of corn chips, which was confirmed by the handful of crumpled-up Big Grab Fritos bags wedged into the middle of the seat cushion.

“I’m not playing neither!” Sean barked without taking his eyes off the road. “Listen to me! A man just died! I need to get into town and tell Lumbergh!”

Milo didn’t immediately respond, taking a moment to let Sean’s claim bounce around the walls of his head. “Whatcha’ talkin’ about, A
man just died?
What man?”

“Back at Meyers Bridge! Just now! He shot himself!”

Milo hesitated again before responding, glaring suspiciously at the side of Sean’s face.

“Are you shittin’ me, boy? There’s a dead fella at Meyers Bridge?”

“Yes! I mean . . . No! He jumped into the river!”

Sean couldn’t verbalize a coherent explanation and had little patience to. He was out of breath, his heart was racing, and his primary concern was reaching town.

Milo, however, wasn’t about to let Sean off the hook with such a cryptic statement. He grabbed his shoulder and used his other hand to point an accusatory finger.

“Ya said he shot himself! Then ya said he jumped inta’ the river! This story smells like horse-shit ta’ me!”

Sean’s head shook in frustration while a sour scowl twisted across his lips.

The truck tore around a sharp corner and onto the paved road of Main Street, leaving behind it a wide cloud of dust. Sean scratched the back of his head with one hand, causing small flakes of dried skin to drop to his shirt collar. His other hand stayed tightly glued to the steering wheel.

“Milo! I just . . . I don’t have time for your shit right now!”

Milo didn’t take kindly to the words. “Oh! Oh! I’m so sorry! Ya stole ma’ truck! Whatcha think Lumbergh’s gonna say about that? Huh?”

“Milo . . . I don’t give a shit what Lumbergh says! When I’m done talking to him, you can tell him your whole life story. For now, just sit there and shut up!” Sean’s head turned toward the old man for the first time, and a frightening glare finally earned compliance.

Milo was visually furious, but the look in Sean’s eye scared the old man. Sean had a reputation for being a loose cannon, and Milo knew better than to light the fuse. He sat back in his seat and folded his arms in front of him, shaking his head in disapproval.

The engine roared louder as Sean picked up speed. Main Street was a straightaway right into town.

Peering at Sean from the corner of his eye, Milo spoke in a less fiery tone. “Ya know . . . All ya had ta’ do was ask, and I’d a given ya a ride ta’ town.”

“Milo . . . No offense, but I could have jogged to town faster than if I’d have let you drive.”

Chapter 3

E
very morning, Chief Gary Lumbergh looked forward to that first cup of coffee. That day’s flavor was Ethiopian Longberry. Its rich aroma elegantly drifted up from the steaming ceramic mug that sat proudly on a coaster on top of the chief ’s redwood oak desk. It spread an ambiance of warmth and comfort through the small office, reminding Lumbergh of the big city. The chief had recently become a member of a coffee of the month club, which he had signed up for over the Internet. This was the premium stuff. Gourmet; much too coveted and high-quality to find at the local supermarket.

Clad in a neatly pressed, light blue dress shirt with rolled up sleeves and a sleek, navy blue tie, Lumbergh didn’t fit the mold of the typical small town lawman. In fact, he was about as far removed from the laid-back and hospitable Andy Griffith–type anyone could possibly be.

While he was well respected by the citizens of Winston and neighboring communities, it wasn’t Lumbergh’s charm or demeanor that made him a hit with the locals. He had a name and quite a resume.

Unlike most of its citizens, Lumbergh hadn’t grown up in Winston, Colorado. He hadn’t even stepped foot inside the state until two years earlier, when he left a prestigious position as a police lieutenant in Chicago. There he’d been involved in numerous high-profile cases that spanned a range of crimes. Murderers, rapists, bank robbers—Lumbergh had worked them all. There, he had quickly become a seasoned veteran of law enforcement, receiving numerous promotions, all of which were earned before his thirty-fourth birthday. Back then, the sky was the limit for Lumbergh.

For the chief, those days seemed so long ago. A quickly fading memory. Now, his largest responsibilities usually involved delinquent high school kids, domestic disputes, or public intoxication—often a combination of the three. He regularly questioned his consequential decision to leave the big time . . . but only to himself. He had made a commitment, and that commitment left him as a big fish in the small pond of Winston.

Chief Gary Lumbergh’s name was bigger than he was, at least physically. He was a short and thin man, standing at around five-foot-six and 135 pounds of pure, unadulterated confidence. Short, slicked-back, dark hair only partially covered the thinning area along his scalp, but Lumbergh wasn’t self-conscious at all about how he looked. Always clean shaven and feverishly chewing on a stick of gum, he had a way of getting things done.

He was a certified workaholic, living in a world that never moved fast enough for his liking. For him, patience was not a virtue—it was a shortcoming. It wasn’t uncommon for him to be seen snapping his fingers to hurry up the testimony of a complainant or feverishly writing down notes in a cryptic form of abbreviation that only he could decipher.

Cowboy hats and cowboy boots—Lumbergh never wore either. In fact, he despised them both so much that he forbade his officers from wearing them while on duty. The uniforms that he approved weren’t much different than what he had worn proudly during the early days of his career: black shoes and a black tie over navy blue. If a subordinate wasn’t professional enough to look professional, he or she had no place in Lumbergh’s squad. The chief took his job extremely seriously and demanded perfection. Of course, perfection was a relative term when it came to the citizens of Winston. Still, he was persistent in striving for it.

It was a slow morning, like most mornings in Winston, yet Lumbergh was feeling uncharacteristically cheerful. Unlike most people, he enjoyed working on the weekends. What little crime that did occur tended to happen then.

Leaning back in his burgundy leather desk chair and clasping his fingers behind his head, he admired the numerous plaques and certificates that decorated his office walls. They made him feel proud. They made him feel legitimate. They let him remember. With a sly smile, he glanced down across his desktop at a large black-and-white framed photo of him with his arms wrapped around a pretty brunette with long hair, bright brown eyes, and a dazzling smile.

Lumbergh’s office was extremely organized. Artwork hung symmetrically along freshly painted walls, the tile floor had been recently waxed, and all furniture was free of dust.

Outside his door, he enjoyed the sound of file cabinets being opened and closed, and keys being typed. It meant work was getting done, or at least sounded like it was getting done. He liked his people busy. In fact, as small as it was, his office often helped neighboring divisions with their workload. The unusual practice helped increase the chances that Lumbergh would be involved in more interesting work than could be found inside his own town limits. He also felt it somewhat of an obligation, considering his skillset.

Being from the big city, he was an automatic celebrity to the rural townsfolk. To them he was articulate, knowledgeable, and commanding. Many seemed to place greater value on him than they did themselves, and who was Lumbergh to argue? He won a landslide election victory over the previous chief, who couldn’t compete with the big-time law enforcement experience a former police lieutenant could bring. The incumbent was so old and ready for retirement anyway that he later thanked Lumbergh for running against him. The voters always supported Lumbergh. His latest funding request for a new police cruiser won almost unanimous support from the public. In fact, records showed that only one person in the town voted against that initiative, and he had a pretty good idea who that person was.

The chief ’s eyes shifted toward his coffee mug, displaying an almost criminal longing. He had never experienced the utopia of Ethiopian Longberry, but message-board reviews claimed it to be exquisite. The wait was over. Anticipating the sharp, winy flavor and slightly tangy kick, he stretched out his small hand for a taste of heaven. The mug roasted in his palm as he leaned back in his chair and raised its rim gingerly to his lips. He wanted to savor the experience.

Without warning, the piercing screech of rubber skidding on pavement blared intrusively from the outside parking lot and through the thin walls of the police office. The hairs on the back of Lumbergh’s neck stood straight up, and his body instinctively jackknifed forward. Hot coffee intrusively streamed down the sides of his chin and onto his shirt and tie.

“Goddammit!” he yelled without reservation. His voice echoed through the small room and into the outside hallway.

With his face twisted in anger, he sprung up to his feet and promptly scanned the room for a towel or napkin. There were none to be found in the neat office. His thin arms worked fervently, opening up every drawer in his desk until he spotted a large legal-sized envelope that he found to be empty. He snatched it with his fingers and stomped briskly to his door where he noticed the rest of his small squad curiously gathering in the narrow lobby at the front entrance of the building.

Holding the envelope to his chest and quickly recognizing its liquid-absorbing deficiency, he stuck his head out into the hallway. From there he could see his officer, Jefferson, who had just returned from patrol. He was peering interestedly out through a window at the top half of one of the dual front doors.

The muffled sound of two people arguing was just barely audible from outside, and the scent of Pine-Sol momentarily distracted Lumbergh’s senses. Still he thought he heard a familiar voice, which compelled him to momentarily forget about his coffee-stained clothes.

“Tell me that’s not who I think it is,” he loudly said through narrowed eyes and a fuming scowl.

Jefferson whipped his head around. There was uneasiness in the officer’s eyes. “Yeah, it’s Sean. He’s with old Milo. And neither one looks none too happy!”

Lumbergh’s eyes rose toward the ceiling. His shoulders lowered as he exhaled an embittered grunt. “Everybody, get back to work!” he firmly directed. “Jefferson, you handle it! I don’t want to be disturbed with his bullshit this early in the morning!”

An audible gulp lifted from Jefferson’s throat. “Me?” he asked, hesitantly.

Lumbergh shot him a glare much like a parent would toward a child who had just spilled a glass of milk.

Jefferson quickly lifted his shoulders and broadened his chest, not wanting to disappoint the man whose approval he so often sought. Licking his upper lip and composing himself, he delivered a firm nod to his boss before turning his attention back to the window.

The chief ducked back inside his office and slammed the thin wooden door shut before retrieving a bottle of Evian water from a small refrigerator beside his desk. While the sound of footsteps shifting back to their cubicles drifted underneath his door, he dabbed water over the top of his coffee-stained shirt.

He knew this would be a good test for Jefferson. The officer had shown hints of promise in the past, but at times tended to lack the proper initiative that Lumbergh felt the job required. The two had spoken of the topic on many occasions, and he had made it clear to Jefferson exactly what was expected of him.

Sean and Milo ranted back and forth like an old married couple engaged in a spat. Their colorful, quickly traded insults grew louder as they neared.

The tall and lanky Jefferson extended his long arm along the door and pushed it open wide for the two to enter.

From behind his desk, Lumbergh could hear Coltraine wildly scream out, “Jefferson! Jefferson! He stole ma’ truck! He kidnapped me!”