part0017

The faucet had been making that sound for months, and Lawson had promised to fix it for just as long. It was what they'd been arguing about before he had left for the office. He knew it wasn't really about the faucet. All it needed was a washer. He was handy enough. He just hadn’t had the time.

Now time was running out on him. Things began to slow. He fought through the heavy fog coating his brain and dulling his senses. He focused on holding the image of his wife's face in his mind. But it was her last words to him that fueled his will to live.

She's said it immediately after hurling a jar of bread and butter pickles at him. Her aim had been off, intentionally, or unintentionally, he didn't know. It broke against the wall of their two-bedroom apartment.

Lawson knew Bonnie didn't hate him. She hated him for dragging her away from everything she loved so he could play cops and robbers, chasing a dream that had proven to be a nightmare he still hadn't awakened from.

Bonnie's words played on an endless loop. I hate you . Lawson would be damned if those were the last words he heard from his wife. He waged the fight of his life, willing himself forward. Lawson looked down at the puddle of blood and wished he could be back in his undecorated kitchen standing back in the broken glass and pickle juice.

"See if there's more supplies in the kitchen." MacIntosh cleared blood from Lawson's face.

"I ain't your bitch, you hear me?" Lankowski was pacing behind MacIntosh. His feet slapped the floor. "Just 'cause Grizz left me in here doesn't mean I work for you."

MacIntosh continued working on the injured man. "I'm trying to plug these holes to stop the bleeding. I need you to go get me the med supplies."

Lankowski pulled a nickel-plated .38 caliber snub nose Smith and Wesson revolver from behind his back. He tapped it against the steel of his oversized rodeo belt buckle. "This gun here says I ain't got to do shit but sit here and watch."

MacIntosh turned his head and eyed the pistol in Lankowski's hand. "Might want to put that down before you shoot yourself in the other foot."

"I told you that piece of shit pig shot me!" Lankowski pointed the gun at Lawson who was duct taped to the back of the chair and could do nothing but stare down the barrel. Or close his eyes. Lawson chose to look death in the eye. Lankowski stared with his bloodshot eyes. He had a deranged look about him. His pacing became more erratic. His thin arm jabbed outward, delivering thrusts from the pistol pointed cockeyed out in front of him.

Lawson heard MacIntosh release a long, slow exhale. A calm settled over his face. "Hang tight," he said in a voice for only Lawson to hear. MacIntosh stood and turned. His body shielded Lawson, but Lankowski continued to pop in and out of view as he paced, the gun flailing about.

"You point that thing in my direction one more time and you'll be the one in that chair when Grizz gets back."

"What'd you say?" Lankowski flailed his arms, but Lawson could see the weapon was no longer pointed their way. "I've got a right mind to whoop your pig luvin' ass, right here, right now."

"Nothing between us but air and opportunity." MacIntosh shifted his weight, balling his fist as he did so. Lankowski didn't notice. But Lawson did. "Choose wisely. Once you cross that line there's no coming back."

The whooshing of his pulse was the only thing Lawson heard for the next several seconds while dead air lay between the two men in a standoff before him. Lankowski laughed, sounding more bird than human.

"What is it with you and this cop? Shit, you didn't offer me any help when I came in with a shot foot. Look at this damn thing. I got it wrapped in a dirty ass dishrag. Why didn't you lift a finger to help with the bullet in my foot?"

"Because I don't like you."

"No. You should have listened earlier when school was in session. This cop is a means to an end. That end being not getting arrested or killed. He's leverage and you're dead weight." A ripple of muscle shot up MacIntosh's right arm. His balled fist tightened. "Plus, I have a thing for assholes. But you know what really pisses me off? Skinny tweakers who have big balls when they're around bigger men or have a gun in their hand. Take those things away and you’re nothing but a cockroach."

Lankowski stood silent.

"Shit or get off the pot. Throw down or put that piece away. The longer you wait, the more explaining you're gonna have to do to Grizz when he gets back and finds the leverage is gone. He's out there right now, delivering this cop's ear as a message. What do you think a man like Grizz will do to a pissant piece of shit like you when he finds out? Hell, he doesn't even trust you with anything more powerful than that five round pea shooter."

"At least he lets me carry one. He doesn't trust you enough to give you one." Frothy spit flew from Lankowski's mouth as he yelled.

"Maybe not. Or maybe he knows firsthand what I did in Spring Creek to Dyson. He had a knife. I didn't. He's dead. I'm not. Maybe, Grizz hasn't given me a gun because he knows I'm deadly enough without one."

Lankowski squawked again. He then tucked the gun behind his back. "Man, you're an asshole. But you’re right, this piece of shit law dog ain't gonna die on my watch. You and I will settle up later."

"Looking forward to it. Until then, how about you help me by finding supplies while I keep pressure on the wounds?"

"That ain't gonna happen. First off, I don't know what the hell I should be lookin' for. If I did, my foot wouldn't be lookin' like a blind doctor with one hand did my bandages." Lankowski stepped forward. The light cast a shadow on his bony face, making his nearly translucent skin more ghoulish. "I don't mind putting pressure on this fine upstanding lawman's wounds. In fact, it'd be my pleasure."

"You put pressure here, here, and here. Like this." MacIntosh turned and demonstrated. Lawson could only feel the juggle of his head and nothing else. "The harder the pressure, the better. He's not going to feel it either way. That bullet in his trap did something bad."

Lankowski exchanged an exaggerated salute. "Sir, yes sir."

"No funny stuff." Macintosh disappeared from Lawson's periphery.

Lankowski waited until it was quiet. The swooshing in Lawson's head continued to pulse, but it was now quiet and much slower. "Nothing funny 'bout getting shot in my foot is there? How 'bout we make it even? What's that old sayin'…an eye for an eye? That's it! How 'bout I take your eye?"

Help! Lawson tried to yell. He was too weak to push his voice past his lips.

Lankowski stepped back and undid the black leather belt from his jeans. His pants sagged to the midway point on his boxer briefs while he wrapped the belt around his right fist. The belt buckle lay atop a coiled snake of leather. A silver cowboy waving his hat on top of a bucking bronco was the last image Lawson saw in the moment before it collided with the left side of his face.

Lawson's world upended. The blow knocked him backward. He looked up at the ceiling tiles; the white squares held in place by thin strips of wood made it look like a tic-tac-toe board. Lankowski floated into view. The belt buckle, the silver cowboy now crimson, hurtled down.

Lawson took in a breath and was prepared for it to be his last. In his exhale he imagined his final words being invisibly sent to his wife. Lawson said what he should have before he left for work. I'm sorry.

Lankowski's belt buckle blotted out the light as it closed in for the finishing blow. Both of Lawson's eyes were now nearly swollen shut and the slits he could see through were filled with blood. He blinked clear his left eye to see the red cowboy buckle disappearing to his right, along with the man holding it.

Lawson strained to see out of the corner of his right eye. MacIntosh was on top. Lawson silently cheered on his defense-attorney-turned-champion as he rained down a hailstorm of punches on Lankowski's face. Lankowski held up his left arm to deflect some of the blows. The gun was in his other hand and pointed in MacIntosh's face.

Lankowski pulled the trigger. MacIntosh shifted his head. Bits of the ceiling tile above rained down from the bullet's hole.

Before the white flecks hit the ground, MacIntosh had stripped the revolver from Lankowski's hand. He moved incredibly fast, flowing from one move to another. He trapped Lankowski's extended hand, the one which he’d taken the gun from. With a quick twist of his body, MacIntosh snapped his elbow. Lankowski let out a shriek. Before he could articulate his anger into words beyond the train of expletives rolling out of his mouth, Lankowski was silenced by a devastating forearm blow to the side of his neck.

MacIntosh wasted no time. He tucked the revolver into the small of his back and stood. He reached down and grabbed Lankowski by the pant legs and dragged him out the front door.

Lawson used the dripping of his blood to mark the passage of time. MacIntosh walked back through the same door he'd dragged Lankowski out of. He hustled over to Lawson and took a knee.

"Lankowski?" Each letter scraped across the back of Lawson's throat as he forced out the question.

"I told him next time he pointed that thing at me he'd be the one in a chair. I always keep my promises. I just found a seat more suitable for someone of his stature." MacIntosh's lips curled ever so slightly. "Now, let's see about getting you patched up."

The ground shook and a loud cracking sound, like that of a hundred trees snapping in half at the same time, filled the quiet.