The deputy sat at the picnic table in his backyard. He’d brushed the snow off the top and benches and placed two bags of Kingsford Charcoal on the top as a rifle rest. As Cole parked his car in the alley behind the deputy’s house, he watched Hubbard calmly sip coffee from a steel mug and caress the rifle that lay across his lap.
Four squads pulled up behind Cole’s Charger and as the men and lone woman got out, he reminded them to be careful. “We think he’s working alone, but don’t assume that. I want two of you to go through the front door and work your way to the back. Clear each room before you settle at the back door and focus on the deputy. Watch for tripwires or other booby traps. I don’t expect them, since he sees you all as good guys. But we need to do this right so we all walk out of here in one piece when it’s over.”
Cole wiped his forehead, the sheen of sweat contrasted with the firm, steady tone of his voice. “I’m hoping we don’t fire a shot. Deputy Hubbard hasn’t killed anyone he didn’t perceive as a murderer, a serial killer of sorts. I don’t believe he wants to kill a cop, even a Fed like me.” He eyed the deputy, “He’s holding a high-powered rifle though, so there is that.
“He could be a suicide by cop candidate, and might like to make himself a martyr for the cause. If that’s the case, he’ll threaten me and may even shoot wide of me. Hold fire unless you see me go down.” He scratched distractedly at the Kevlar vest he had layered over his dress shirt at the courthouse, and looked at the faces around him. He read the nervousness and anxiety written clearly on each. He nodded. “Stay focused and we’ll all be okay.”
Fwam took one of his men around to the front of the house, while Chief Mara set up the remainder of the team. Cole gave Fwam enough time to get inside and make sure the deputy was alone. Then he slowly started walking toward Hubbard, the twenty-five yards he had to cover looking more like the length of three football fields. The deputy set his coffee down and brought the rifle up, resting the forestock and barrel on the charcoal bags.
Cole moved carefully. The shooter had made shots a lot more difficult than this. At this range, he could hit a quarter, or take out Cole’s eye. He pushed that thought away, and each baby step he took carried him a foot closer to the deputy.
The sky was bright and cloudless and Cole approached the shooter with the sun at his back. This was standard operating procedure when confronting an armed suspect, but Cole second-guessed himself as he shuffled forward. The shooter would be squinting. He would be uncomfortable and fighting to keep the glare from obscuring his sight in the scope. He was more than an adequate marksman, but under these conditions, his aim could be compromised.
“We aren’t going to hurt you,” Cole called to Hubbard in a loud, clear voice. He wanted to sound commanding and authoritative. “We’re going to take you in and talk about what you’re involved in and what you believe.”
The deputy had the rifle aimed at Cole’s head and Cole was mulling the position of the sun and his next words when the deputy fired. He felt like he’d been tapped high on his forehead as the report of the 30/30 shocked his ears. He staggered to a stop, wondering if he’d been hit. He shook off the thought and shouted, “Don’t shoot! Do not return fire!”
He fought a quiver in his lips and added even louder, “Deputy Hubbard will not shoot me! He’s a good man who doesn’t want to go down in history as a cop killer!” He moved forward again. Slower. Ten yards from the deputy he noticed how soft the ground was. The sun was melting the snow and the ground was spongy with moisture.
When Cole was no more than four yards from the shooter he tried to concentrate, but he wondered now if he really understood Hubbard. What if he misjudged him? Would he kill him in cold blood? In the span of one small, slow stride, images of a coming spring, death, resurrection, and blooms crowded his thoughts, competing for space in his brain with images of Michele. If he died now there was so much about her he would never learn, so much he wanted to tell her and maybe give her that he never could.
“Stop right there or I will put a bullet in you,” Hubbard said, not much above a whisper. The law enforcement personnel whose guns were all trained on the deputy from behind the relative safety of their vehicles and the back door couldn’t hear and likely didn’t notice the slight movement of the deputy’s lips.
The words were clear enough to Cole. He held up and tried to focus on breathing slower and deeper.
“I was making a difference,” the deputy said, keeping his eyes tight to his scope and his rifle trained on Cole. “The number of abortion doctors going to work has gone down the past few weeks, and not just in Wisconsin and Illinois, but across the country. No surprise, right? You’d figure a bunch of baby killers for cowards. They can’t spend all that money if they’re not breathing.”
Cole stood on the soggy lawn, bathed in the harsh sunlight reflecting off the melting snow. He could tell the deputy had more to say, so he stayed quiet, taking another deep breath and swallowing hard.
“I knew you’d catch on to me sooner or later, but I was hoping for later. Shooting defenseless murderers isn’t fun, but trying to protect the innocent, the unborn, those who can’t fend for themselves, well, that’s been a noble calling. I’ve never felt like I made much of a difference before, but lately, I have been. It was never about me. It’s been about the children. It was always about the children.”
Cole felt his head get warm, but not from the sun. His brain was warming up from the inside, not the outside, with a familiar gentle pulsing. He tensed, wanting nothing more than to leap out of the way and maybe keep running until he got back to Milwaukee. Instead, he held his ground and started to tell the deputy he understood when the 30/30 fired a second time. This round, from close range, slammed into the meat of Cole’s left shoulder and spun him around. He cried out as he tumbled to the slush. He thought to yell not to shoot, but the sound of eight guns barking deafeningly from the vehicles and back door drowned out the notion.
Cole rolled painfully to his side and looked toward the picnic table. The deputy had been hit, dropped his rifle, and was sliding under the table.
“Stop!” Cole croaked. “Stop firing!” His voice cranked up.
It was quiet as Cole scrabbled on his three good limbs to Hubbard, who lay awkwardly on his back, his legs pinned under him. The deputy had multiple chest wounds and his life poured crimson from his body. He gasped, “Forgive me,” and stopped breathing.
It dawned on Cole that maybe it wasn’t him the shooter wanted forgiveness from. It was Him.
He rolled onto his own back in the wet snow and shut his eyes to the sunlight, feeling more than hearing the cops and EMTs rush over.