Author of Mystery and Suspense Novels

Excerpt

ECHOES OF THE LOST ORDER

Available in November 2005 from Five Star Publications
Order From Amazon

     The telephone rang and MacKinnon was instantly awake. Reaching over to pick up the receiver he glanced at the digital alarm clock. The glowing numerals read 3:12 a.m. Well, it's either a crash or someone's hurt, thought MacKinnon. It was never good news at this hour of the morning. Clearing his throat, he said, "MacKinnon here."

     It was Dispatcher Wendy Schurz and she sounded worried. "Chief, we need you on a cover call."

     "Where?" Rolling out of bed, he nearly tripped over Rob Roy. The dog grumbled and pushed himself further under the bed.

     "The Blackburn Gallery, two-nineteen Old Tavern Road. Plummer responded to an alarm activation and he thinks he's got a suspect inside."

     "Where should I meet him?"

     There was a pause as Schurz conferred with Plummer over the police radio. Then she was back on the line. "He's at the rear door."

     "I'm on my way." MacKinnon hung up the phone.

     "Honey, what is it?" asked Victoria, her voice groggy.

     "Watch your eyes," he warned MacKinnon as he turned on the lamp on his side of the bed. "We've got a burglar, there now, at Blackburn's Antiques."

     Victoria rubbed her eyes and then sat up to watch her husband throw on a pair of jeans, his ballistic vest, some tennis shoes, and a uniform shirt. Grabbing his gun belt, he strapped it around his waist as he hurried into his office to retrieve his flashlight from the charger. She met him in the hallway and gave him a quick, strong hug. "Sweetheart, I love you. Please be careful."

     He kissed his wife on the temple. "Count on it. Be back in a little bit."

     After the coolness of the air-conditioned house, he found the atmosphere outside unpleasantly reminiscent of a sauna. The streets of Talmine were dark and deserted at this hour of the morning and it took less than a minute to drive to the scene. About a block from Blackburn's Antique Gallery, he extinguished his headlights and coasted to a stop just around the corner from the business.

     Getting out of the car, he took special care to close the door quietly, so as not to advertise his arrival, and then crept into the alley, his revolver in hand. Plummer flashed his light once very briefly to mark his location and a second later MacKinnon joined the officer at the slightly open backdoor. Inside, MacKinnon could hear items being moved. Plummer pointed to the door handle with his pistol. The hardware had been jimmied.

     Leaning close to Plummer, MacKinnon whispered, "You go around the front, just in case he tries to go out through the window. When you're in place, click your radio transmit button twice and I'll give the announcement."

     "Yes, sir," rasped Plummer, and disappeared around the corner.

     A few seconds later, MacKinnon's portable radio buzzed twice. He took a deep breath and shouted in through the open door, "This is the Talmine Police Department! We know you're in there! Put your hands up and come on out the back door!"

     There was the sound of glass shattering on the floor and then silence. MacKinnon waited a moment and yelled again, "Hey, we can do this the easy way or the hard way and to help you with this decision let me enlighten you on an ancient law enforcement tradition. Burglars who don't surrender are almost always injured when they fall down trying to escape! Catch my drift?"

     Still there was no response. MacKinnon lifted his portable radio and whispered, "See anything, Greg?"

     "Negative. Thought I saw a flashlight for a second when I got here, but nothing now."

     "Copy. Hold your position. Tango One to Control, is there any chance of getting some backup from the SO?"

     "Negative." Schurz's voice sounded tinny over the radio speaker. "He can't break from an injury TC."

     MacKinnon exhaled sharply. He wanted to wait for backup, but the longer they tarried the greater the chance the suspect might make for the second floor and then the roof to escape. He pressed the radio transmit button. "Okay. Greg, I'm going to give him one last chance and then make entry. You stay there in case he rabbits in that direction."

     "Ten-four."

     MacKinnon cautiously pushed the door open and shouted, "Last opportunity, pal! Come out now with your hands in the air!" There was still no response. Calling on the radio, he murmured, "Negative results. I'm going in."

     "Ten-four."

     The doorway opened into a narrow corridor with two doors on the left and one on the right. Louvered wooden saloon doors marked the end of the hallway and beyond that was the sales area. Holding his gun close to his body at breast level, MacKinnon slowly pushed the first door on the left open and illuminated the interior with his flashlight. It was a restroom and there was no one inside. The door on the opposite side of the hallway led to a claustrophobic office and the flashlight beam revealed the filing cabinet and desk drawers had been ransacked. But there was no one inside. Moving on to the third door, MacKinnon discovered it opened into a tiny workshop. Again, the room was vacant.

     He crept forward, peered over the top of the saloon doors, and instantly raised his revolver. There was a motionless human figure in the far corner of the room near the large window. But as MacKinnon studied the form he realized it was a mannequin attired in an old-fashioned diving suit. Scanning the room he saw several other mannequins. Or what I hope are mannequins, he thought anxiously. Holding his flashlight away from his body, he momentarily illuminated the front part of the shop. He didn't see anyone, but that really didn't mean anything. The sales floor was a disorganized labyrinth of wood and glass display cases; large pieces of furniture like roll-top desks and upright pianos; hat racks hung with archaic clothing and crowned with old headwear; and several tall, freestanding mirrors. Not good. There were at least a hundred places where a suspect intent on ambush could hide.

     Hoping to flush the crook out into the open, MacKinnon pushed one of the saloon doors open and then let it shut noisily, trying to create the impression he'd entered the sales area. Nothing happened. He then dropped to his hands and knees and crawled under the doors to a position of cover behind a loveseat. Now he could see the entire room, but the back part of the store was as dark and murky as the Maryland State Police coffee at BWI. Slowly standing up, he paused to again scan the room and then moved toward the sales counter to begin his search.

     The silence was broken by the sound of a car approaching and then a pair of headlights illuminated the interior of the shop. Plummer shouted for the driver to turn his fucking headlights off and suddenly there was a horizontal geyser of yellowish flame from MacKinnon's left, near the stairway. Simultaneously, an invisible sledgehammer slammed the left side of his stomach. Thrown backwards into a glass display case and onto the floor, he was deafened by the roar of the gun being discharged. An instant later, the display window exploded inward and Plummer began to empty his 9mm pistol at the hidden gunman.

     Blocking out the intense pain, MacKinnon crawled for a position of cover behind the oaken sales counter. You are not going to die in a glorified thrift shop, he roughly commanded himself. From the radio on his hip he could hear Wendy Schurz's panicked voice asking their status. The gunfire stopped for a moment as Plummer reloaded and, from the back of the store, MacKinnon detected the sound of ceramic debris being stepped on. Forcing himself to his knees, he leveled his revolver at a shadowy figure and was blinded by another font of saffron fire as his attacker now took a shot at Plummer. Glass shattered and there was a shriek of agony from outside. MacKinnon knew Plummer had been hit.

     There was the hollow patter of running footsteps and the saloon doors being thrown open. His night vision still ruined from the enormous muzzle-flash, MacKinnon fired twice at the shadowy figure and knew he'd missed. His natural instinct was to pursue the suspect, yet rationally he knew that neither he nor Plummer was in condition to chase anyone. He heard Plummer's frightened voice erupt into his portable radio, "Tango Three! Shots fired! Shots fired! Tango One is down and I'm hit! Get me paramedics, code three!"

     "Where are you hit?" cried Schurz, and the voice MacKinnon heard wasn't that of a professional police dispatcher, but a woman terrified over the fate of her beloved. An incongruous thought intruded: the stories of the blossoming midnight shift romance were true.

     "My head! My hands!" Plummer said in a despairing voice.

     Holding on to the counter, MacKinnon pulled himself to his feet and used the flashlight to examine his own injuries. There was a large, circular hole in his uniform shirt about three inches above his belt. MacKinnon touched the wound experimentally and discovered there was no blood. The ballistic vest had stopped the bullet, but it felt as if the entire cast of Riverdance had just used his abdomen as a stage. Then, in the distance, he heard a car engine roar, followed by the squeal of tires. From the sound of it, the vehicle was headed southbound on Old Tavern Road.

     "Tango One! Tango One! Your status?" Schurz yelled over the radio.

     "He's down!" Plummer shouted.

     In the background another man's voice wailed, "What should I do?"

     Lifting his portable radio, MacKinnon said in a slightly quavering voice, "Tango One to Control, I'm hit, but I think I'm okay. Suspect vehicle departed southbound on Old Tavern. No suspect description. No vehicle description."

     "Tango Three's status?" Schurz was crying.

     "I'm going out to check right now, Wendy." MacKinnon secured his revolver in the clamshell holster. "Calm down. It's going to be all right."

     "Copy." There was the tiniest sliver of resolve in Schurz's tone. "Rescue Squad en route."

     "Good. Start a full department recall and call the Sheriff."

     "Yes, sir."

     Carefully climbing out through the shattered window, MacKinnon saw that the moaning Plummer was slumped on the pavement with his back against the building. Blood covered his face, shoulders, and hands. It didn't look good, but MacKinnon reminded himself that head wounds always produced huge amounts of blood. Clutched in Plummer's left hand was a full magazine of 9mm shells while he blindly slid his right hand over the pavement. Crouched beside the fallen officer was Leonard Blackburn, the owner of the antique shop. Somewhere to the south a siren began to yelp.

     MacKinnon knelt down and took Plummer's hand. "You're going to be fine, Greg. Just hang on."

     "Can't see. Where's my gun?" demanded the wounded officer in a confused, querulous voice.

     The Beretta 92F was on the sidewalk near the wall. Releasing Plummer's hand for a moment, MacKinnon picked the pistol up, insured it was unloaded, and tucked it into the back of his gun belt. He put his hand on Plummer's shoulder. "Got it."

     "Thanks. Couldn't find it." Plummer sounded a little calmer. "Fucker had to have had a shotgun. Saw you go down and I tried to get him."

     "I know. You did fine. Saved my life. Now you've got to be strong for Wendy. She's scared to death."

     Plummer struggled to control his rapid breathing. "I'll try."

     "By the way, you two weren't using the sofa in my office for the wild thing, were you?" joked MacKinnon, trying to think of something, anything, to divert the wounded officer's attention from his injuries.

     "No," Plummer replied weakly, but there was the flicker of an embarrassed smile on his face.

     "Liar," teased MacKinnon.

     "Well, only once."

     "I thought that stain looked suspicious."

     Plummer grinned. Good, thought MacKinnon.

     Blackburn was stunned. In a frantic voice, he said, "Oh, God, I'm so sorry. The alarm company called and told me there was an activation at the shop. I drove up and it was too late to turn my headlights off."

     "It's not your fault, Mr. Blackburn. Now I need you to move your car so the paramedics have room," said MacKinnon. Actually, there was enough parking space on the deserted street for every emergency vehicle in town, but, as with Plummer, Blackburn needed distraction from the tragedy.

     "I'll take care of it right away." Blackburn looked baffled and frightened, as if he'd awakened from a bad dream only to discover the nightmare was still in progress.

     There were more sirens now. However, the first vehicle to skid to a stop in front of the business was a forest green Ford Explorer. MacKinnon recognized the SUV because it normally sat in his driveway. No doubt having heard the frantic broadcasts over the police radio in his office, Victoria had thrown her clothes on and broken a land speed record getting to the scene. Like a lioness intent on the kill, she leapt from the Explorer and MacKinnon realized she had his Sig-Sauer .45 automatic in her hand. It was abundantly clear that Victoria hadn't come to lament, but to fight, and he'd never been more proud of his wife.

     "Code four, sweetheart," he said. "Put the iron away."

     "Are you all right?" Victoria slipped the pistol inside the waistband of her jeans and knelt down beside him.

     "Bruised. The vest stopped the round."

     "How you doing, Greg?"

     "He's fine," replied MacKinnon, but when his eyes met Victoria's, a different message was conveyed: Looks bad. "Honey, I need you to do me a big favor. It seems that Greg and Wendy…"

     Victoria understood. "And she's alone in dispatch. I'll get over there, right now."

     "Thanks. From the sound of it, she's about to have a nervous breakdown."

     "Can't blame her. I'm postponing mine until you get home," Victoria said, her voice suddenly husky. "Are you sure you're all right?"

     "I'm fine. Sore and scared shitless, but otherwise fine."

     As Victoria departed, a Brookesmith County Sheriff's car appeared on Old Tavern Road, its light bar flashing and siren howling. The cruiser slued to a halt and a deputy jumped out, shotgun in hand.

     "Bring me your first aid kit!" shouted MacKinnon.

     The deputy tossed the shotgun back inside the car and grabbed the first aid gear from the trunk. A moment later MacKinnon was gently pressing a mound of gauze against Plummer's left eye and temple. Then the fire department and paramedics arrived and began to prepare Plummer for transportation to Talmine Community Hospital.

     "Okay, Greg, these guys are gonna take good care of you," MacKinnon said. "And once we get someone to take over the radio, my wife is going to drive Wendy over to the hospital."

     "Thanks, chief. Sorry about the couch." Plummer showed a feeble smile.

     "You can use it on your honeymoon."

     Moving out of the way of the busy paramedics, MacKinnon leaned against the wall and felt his knees quiver and hands shake with adrenaline palsy. He took a deep breath and winced. His side was really beginning to hurt. Then he noticed the deputy-his last name was Dawes so naturally everybody called him Deputy Dawg-standing nearby. "Did you see anything as you came into town?" MacKinnon asked.

     "Nothing. Not a goddamn thing." Dawes looked from the smashed store window to Plummer being loaded into the ambulance and growled, "Fuck!"

     "What?"

     "It's just that I'd have been here if it weren't for that bogus fucking call."

     "Wait a minute! They told us you were out on a traffic crash."

     "There was no traffic crash. Our dispatch got a call on the non-emergency line from an anonymous RP saying a vehicle had gone off the road and into Wert Creek."

     "Almost all the way out to the county line."

     "Right. Anyway, I got out there and started looking around and didn't see shit. And then all hell breaks loose here in town…" Dawes paused. "I was decoyed."

     Gritting his teeth, MacKinnon said, "We all were."

Available in November 2005 from Five Star Publications

Order From Amazon