I opened the door, slammed it closed behind me. I tried to pull out my .45, but it wasn’t there. I sought out Blood and Bridgette. Neither were to be found. Making my way back into the main office, I saw Blood down on one knee, his 9mm semi-automatic gripped in one hand while he held a man face down on the floor with the other. Blood’s knee was pressed into the small of the man’s back while the man’s left arm was pulled back awkwardly in a position that seemed painful and paralyzing. Set on the floor beside the man’s agonized face were two pizza boxes and a black revolver. A .38 Special, by the looks of it.
Bridgette stood behind Blood, her service weapon drawn. Just to the right of her stood Karla, both her hands pressed against her mouth.
“It’s Joyce’s husband, Larry,” she said, handing me my piece. “Looks like he came to break her out.”
“Or kill her,” I said, returning the .45 to the shoulder holster.
Blood grabbed Larry’s other arm and pressed both his wrists together. Bridgette leaned in and cuffed him. Then Blood pulled him off the floor, stood him up. He was a dumpy man of medium height. Thick, salt and pepper hair that hadn’t seen a comb or a shower in ages. A pudgy face covered in stubble.
“I’m not gonna kill my Joyce,” he cried. “I wanna bring her home into the arms of her loving husband and her savior, the Lord Jesus Christ.”
“I admire your passion, Larry,” I said. “Guns and Christ. You really thought you’d get away with it?”
“I want a lawyer,” Larry said. “I don’t say nothin’ till I see my Joyce and a lawyer. You got that, sinners?”
“Who you callin’ a sinner?” Blood said.
I swear, real tears were falling down Larry’s cheeks. If only he knew how much Joyce hated him. Outside, reporters were salivating, their faces and cameras pressed against the glass door.
“Karla,” Bridgette said. “Lock the front doors.”
“Good idea,” I said.
“I got another good idea,” Blood said. “Leave the gun, take the pizza.”
“This town is truly fucked up at the moment,” Bridgette said, bringing the triangular edge of a slightly damaged piece of pizza to her mouth. She took a small bite, turning her eyes back towards the pegboard and the map attached to it. “Why do you suppose Joyce’s husband would try and spring her knowing what he knows about her wanting to kill him?”
“Love is blind,” Blood said, devouring half a slice of pepperoni in one single bite. “Christians are all about the forgiveness and the redemption. No world is so corrupt it cannot be redeemed. Less, of course, it’s Sodom and Gomorrah, in which case, the Lord wipes the slate clean, starts all over.”
“Blood’s on to something,” I said. “Sometimes, love can be obsessive, and it looks like he would have done anything to get her out, get her home, get her back into his bed and begging Jesus for forgiveness. Back to whatever they call normal. If such a thing is possible.” I bit into my pizza. Bridgette was right. This was good pizza. “Question is, how did he know enough to pick up our pizza and deliver it to us?”
“He works at Sal’s part-time,” Bridgette said. “Drive’s for them, usually on weekends. Never thought to make that connection. Nor figure that he might have picked up new hours now that Joyce was living directly across the street.” Shaking her head. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m fit for this damn job.”
Blood set his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t be discouraged, Sheriff. Forces at work here beyond your control. Beyond anybody’s control. You dig?”
“I dig,” she said, her face blushing. Blood’s touch had that effect on women of all ages, shapes, sizes, and creeds. Turning to me, she said, “We can head back to Maude’s in a half hour. You still wanna meet Gene? See what he knows?”
I grabbed another slice of pepperoni, set it on a paper plate.
“We’ll bring him lunch,” I said. “Food can be a powerful motivator. Maybe it will make him talk.”
“So can waterboarding,” Blood said.
Gene’s pizza in hand, Bridgette and I stepped out of the office and into the general booking area. A handcuffed Larry Mathews was sitting beside one of the three desks just staring off into space while Karla took down his vital information. It dawned on me that if he’d been able to discharge his weapon, the press and more press would have been surrounding the sheriff’s office like green flies on a fresh corpse. As it was, the press was hovering over the place. But by the looks of it, Larry’s Banzai scream didn’t quite register with them, and that was a good thing.
“Good pizza,” I said as I passed him by on my way to the cell bay.
“Sal’s is the best,” he said nonchalantly as if he hadn’t just burst into the sheriff’s office only moments before brandishing a loaded hand cannon. “That’s all I’m gonna say ’til my lawyer gets here. You got that, Sheriff? And when do I get to see my Joyce?”
She doesn’t want to see you, pal . . .
“You go get that lawyer, Larry,” I said. “Stick it to the man; that’s what I say. Even if the man—or sheriff, in this case—is a beautiful woman.”
Bridgette slapped my arm.
“Aren’t you the charmer,” she said. “I’m going to take you up on that dinner offer after all.”
In the back, I found the cell marked number 4. I stood just to the left of it while Bridgette repeated the process of knocking on the metal door and shouting through it, warning Gene of a visitor. Removing my piece, I once again handed it to the sheriff. She took it, shoved the barrel into her pant waist. Unlocking the door, she opened it.
“Good luck,” she said.
Pizza in hand, I stepped inside, and for the first time ever, laid naked eyes upon a naked Mean Gene Bender.