Claw Back (Louis Kincaid) (24 page)

“Jesus,” Louis muttered. “It’s Bedford-fucking-Falls.”

The thought made his mind trip back suddenly to childhood. It was a long-buried memory, and the suddenness of it was so acute, so unexpected, that it brought a sting to his chest.

It was 1967. He had been just weeks past his eighth birthday and had come to the fifth in a string of foster homes, arriving in the middle of a blizzard a few days before Christmas. There had been four other kids, all foster children and all white.

He had spent the day off by himself, eyeing the Christmas tree and the presents, knowing there would be nothing under there for him. Later, he picked at his dinner and moped while the other kids played stupid games only they seemed to know and talked of things Louis knew nothing about.

A man had come in, a very tall man. Louis knew he was the man who owned the big house, another strange face, another foster father. The man told them all to sit in circle. He handed each of them two Christmas cookies and a glass of milk then turned on the television.
Stale cookies and some stupid old black-and-white movie about some stupid white guy who worked in a bank.

Louis had stood up. The tall man asked him, gently but firmly, to sit down. He refused and the man repeated his request. No one was watching the movie. They were all watching him and the man. When the man told him a third time to sit down, Louis kicked the paper plate, sending the cookies skidding across the floor.

“Testing me, Louis?” the man asked quietly.

“I don’t
wanna
be here.”

“Where do you want to be?”

“Home.”

“This is your home now.”

“I don’t like it. I hate it. I hate it.”

The man came over to Louis, slipped an arm around his shoulders and guided him over to the sofa. Louis sat stiffly on the edge, staring at the TV screen. Finally, the man pulled Louis’s rigid body into the crook of his arm and neither said another word for an hour. When the movie was over, Louis stood up, walked to the broken cookies and cleaned up the crumbs.

He didn’t understand the movie and he sure didn’t believe in angels. But after that, very slowly, he did come to believe in the tall man. He came to love Phillip Lawrence.

What was the name of that damn movie? Shit, it was all over TV every Christmas.
It’s a
Wonderful Life.
That was it.

A sign for the police station lay ahead. The station was nearly obscured by pines and evergreens. Louis swung into the lot and cut the engine. The building was made of logs, like a ranger station. A smoking chimney reached into the gray sky and two bare maples formed a spindly tunnel over the sidewalk.

Louis got out of the car, stretching his stiff body. He was struck by the smell of the air -- pine and smoke. He bent and checked his tie in the
sideview
mirror. He had spent almost eight hours on the road. His trousers were wrinkled and he felt dirty. What a way to appear for a job interview.

He stepped into the station, the heat from a ceiling vent raining down on him. The interior was paneled in a coffee-colored wood, and a brick fireplace in the back crackled with a healthy fire. A polished pine counter and a long railing separated the work area from where he stood in the lobby. Behind the counter,
on a closed door was a gold plate that read: CHIEF OF POLICE.

Louis went to the counter, glancing at the large tray of Christmas cookies. An officer sat at the rear desk, his blond head bent over a report.

“Excuse me...”

The young man looked up and smiled. He stacked his papers neatly, positioning them exactly parallel to the edge of the desk. He rose and came to the counter.

“What can I help you with?” The smile was genuine. He had perfect straight teeth and close-cropped hair. His skin was smooth and pink, and combined with the powder-blue police
shirt,
he looked like a baby shower gift. His silver nameplate said DALE MCGUIRE.

“I saw the ad in the paper,” Louis said.

The officer’s eyes moved over Louis’s blue blazer and he reached under the counter and produced an application form and several other papers. Louis moved the tray of cookies and turned the papers so he could read them.

“You have to do the app here. Chief wants to make sure you can read and write,” the officer said.

Louis nodded, reaching for his pen. “Have you had many applicants?”

“A few, but you’re the last. Chief says the deadline is five, he means five.”

Louis glanced at the empty chairs, debating whether to take a seat. His eye was drawn to a framed photograph on the wall. It had a small black ribbon across the top corner. The handsome black officer in the photograph was named Thomas Pryce. The plate beneath the photo said: IN MEMORIUM JUNE 12, 1952-DECEMBER 1, 1984.

Two weeks ago.

Louis turned to see McGuire staring at him.

“Is there something wrong?” Louis asked.

McGuire smiled.
“No, nothing.
Would you like a cookie?”

Louis nodded and picked up a cookie, munching on it as he completed the forms.

“L-17 to Central, we’re back in service.”

The sound of the officer’s voice on the radio drew Louis’s attention to the dispatch desk in the corner. The dispatcher was a walrus of a woman with
a jet
-black bouffant and Fifties-style cat-eye glasses. With a sigh, she lowered her paperback and keyed the microphone.

“Ten-four, seventeen.
I have a message for you. Your wife requests that you stop and p
ick up egg-
nog
on the way home.”

“Ten-four, Central.”

McGuire nodded toward the dispatcher. “That’s Edna.”

Edna gave a wave from behind her Danielle Steel novel without looking up at Louis.

More calls trickled in and Louis listened as he filled out the forms.
A lost dog.
An officer stating he was checking in on an elderly woman who lived alone.
Another
requesting jumper cables for a stranded motorist.

All his life, Louis had set his sights on working for a big city department with plenty of action. But here he was. What did this town even need
cops
for?

He glanced at Dale McGuire, who was re-taping the tinsel around his computer screen. Still, there was something about this place.
Something in the air, something...sweet and clean that was more than just pine and gingerbread.
He had felt it the moment he drove into town. He remembered something his foster mother Frances once said, something about people having places on earth where their souls felt comfortable. Places where, as soon as you set foot in them you felt at home. He had never felt that special pull to any one place.

“You know,” McGuire said, interrupting his thoughts, “the Chief hasn’t found anyone he liked yet. When you get done with that he’ll want to see you.”

See him?
Now?

“He’s anxious to fill the job. Doesn’t like working short-handed,” McGuire said.

Louis glanced at the Chief’s door. He saw his cold ugly apartment back in Detroit and felt the sting of lonely nights there.

God, he wanted this job. He wanted it bad.

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MEET P.J. PARRISH

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P.J. Parrish is the
New York Times
bestselling author of ten Louis Kincaid and Joe Frye thrillers. The author is actually two sisters, Kristy
Montee
and Kelly Nichols. Their books have appeared on both the
New York Times
and
USA Today
best seller lists. The series has garnered 11 major crime-fiction awards, and an Edgar® nomination. Parrish has won two Shamus awards, one Anthony and one International Thriller competition. Her books have been published throughout Europe and Asia.

Parrish's short stories have also appeared in many anthologies, including two published by Mystery Writers of America, edited by Harlan
Coben
and the late Stuart
Kaminsky
. Their stories have also appeared in
Akashic
Books acclaimed DETROIT NOIR, and in
Ellery Queen Magazine
. Most recently, they contributed an essay to a special edition of Edgar Allan Poe's works edited by Michael Connelly.

Before turning to writing full time, Kristy
Montee
was a newspaper editor and dance critic for the Sun-Sentinel in Fort Lauderdale. Nichols previously was a blackjack dealer and then a human resources specialist in the casino industry.
Montee
lives in Fort Lauderdale and Nichols resides in Elk Rapids, Michigan.

The sisters were writers as kids, albeit with different styles: Kelly's first attempt at fiction at age 11 was titled “The Kill.” Kristy's at 13 was “The Cat Who Understood.” Not much has changed: Kelly now tends to handle the gory stuff and Kristy the character development. But the collaboration is a smooth one, thanks to lots of ego suppression, good wine, and marathon phone calls via Skype.

B
OOKS BY P.J. PARRISH

DARK OF THE MOON

DEAD OF WINTER

PAINT IT BLACK

THICKER THAN WATER

ISLAND OF BONES

A KILLING RAIN

THE UNQUIET GRAVE

A THOUSAND BONES

SOUTH OF HELL

THE LITTLE DEATH

THE KILLING SONG

CLAW BACK

(A Louis Kincaid Novella)

HEART OF ICE