Bonfire Blues

Chapter 1

When I first went into the private investigation business, I never thought that one day it could possibly lead to a massive upheaval of my life, as well as the lives of those around me. I think that fact is what bothers me most. I've never been one to set out for revenge. Justice? Yes. Revenge? Never. It's just not part of who I am. Looking at my life, or rather what's left of my life, from a new perspective, however, I can see how I could easily fall prey to revenge. Living life in the crosshairs of a hired assassin does that do you.

I won't bore you with all the long, tedious details of how I got here. Suffice it to say that six years ago, a case I was investigating lead to the arrest, and eventual conviction, of a man with ties to organ farms. A grisly prospect, I know, but when I first took the case, I had no idea what was in store for me.

After the trial, some of the confederates of the man, as well as other members of his family, initially declared that they would, as they papers reported it, exact their revenge for my crime against their kinsman. I didn't really pay much attention to it. I mean, after all, this is the twenty-first century. What part do fatwa's have in this day and age?

*~*~*~*~*

It was mid-October, a Wednesday, and I was working late, little Mister Virtue organizing outdated client files and well as doing some necessary bookkeeping I'd been lazy in keeping up with. The sun had gone down hours ago, oranges and reds painted vividly across the sky and eventually darkening to that indescribably shade of night sky that wasn't quite black, but it wasn't blue either.

My office, in a previously unused corner of Wallace and McCaffrey, an insurance agency I used to work for, was the only one occupied. The rest of the floor was dark and empty. The only sounds I could hear were the buzz coming from the fluorescent light overhead, and the gurgle of the coffee pot as it went through its brew cycle. As I waited for the coffee pot to finish, I stared in disgust at the files that lay scattered over every available surface in my small office. I had no idea I'd taken on this many clients in the ten years I'd been working for myself. I was just about to settle down in the floor and open yet another box, when I thought I heard a noise coming from the main offices up front.

I don't know if you've ever spent any time in an office building at night or not. During the day, they're full of people, the sounds of computer keyboards and telephones ringing, as well as all of the other paraphernalia associated with a modern office, each of which has its own distinctive sound. By night? It's an entirely different world. Typically, the only sounds are the ones you make when you're there. It gives you a new perspective on stillness. It also heightens your awareness of even the slightest sound. Like the sound of shoes walking on carpet I was hearing at the moment.

Moving as quickly and quietly as I could, I flipped out the lights in my office and slowly opened the door. Normally, the hallway would be in almost total darkness, the only light coming from the merrily glowing 'Exit' sign above the door across from my office. Tonight, though, I could see light coming down the hallway from the front offices. Crouching, I duck walked down the corridor, approaching the light cautiously.

I felt a slight twinge in my side from the gunshot I'd suffered at the hands of Kevin Davis six months ago. I know that both entry and exit wounds had healed entirely, and that the phantom pain I was feeling now was nothing but my mind trying to cast me back in time to the night of the shooting.

As I approached the end of the corridor, I could see a single light coming from my right, the main offices. Manda's desk would be to my left as well as the main entrance. Approaching even more cautiously, I froze when I saw a shadow cross the light cast across the carpet.

'Why the hell didn't I bring anything to defend myself with?' I thought. Knowing that there was nothing else I could do now that I'd got this far; I waited for the shadow to pass and quickly rolled across the sliver of light and into the darkness on the other side. I tucked my body as tightly as I could between two filing cabinets. From my vantage point, I could see the half dozen desks the other agents used as well as part of the door that lead to Miranda Wallace's office. It was from this, slightly open door that the light was coming. I was just about to peer around the corner of my cover when I saw the shadow cross the light again.

Quickly scanning my surroundings, I tried to find something, anything, that I could use to defend myself. To my right, I could see the reception area and Manda's desk. Staying crouched, I crept to her desk to search for anything I could use as a potential weapon. I scanned the surface of her desk taking note of the empty blotter, the telephone, her personal photos, and then I spotted what I was looking for.

Gleaming slightly in the light coming from Miranda Wallace's open door, I could see the handle of the silver letter opener Manda used on a daily basis. Quickly glancing over my shoulder to see of whoever it was in Miranda's office was looking out, I snatched the letter opener out of the cup holding the pencils and pens, and turned to face the open door. Holding my newly acquired 'weapon' low, I slowly approached the door.

Keeping to the shadows, I peered inside the door and saw a single person standing inside. Fate was smiling at me, because whoever he was, he was facing away from me, standing at Miranda's desk, flipping through a folder he'd obviously taken from the open filing cabinet in her office.

Moving as quickly and quietly as I could, I came up behind him, grabbed on of his arms and promptly twisted it up between his shoulder blades while placed the blade of the letter opener against his throat. I felt his body tense and begin to struggle, trying to throw off my grip.

"Who the hell are you and what the hell do you think you're doing in here?" I asked, leaning my mouth next to his ear.

Rather than answer my rasped question, he proceeded to rake his foot down my shin and grind his heel onto the top of my foot. At the same time, he jabbed his free elbow into my stomach, driving the air out of my lungs with a whoosh.

I had no choice but to relax my grip on him. Doubling over, I placed my hands on my knees, trying to force some air back into my lungs. Taking advantage of my momentary incapacitation, the intruder grabbed the files off of Miranda's desk and bolted out the door. Limping after him, I tried to catch up to him, but he had too much of a head start. Bolting down the stairs, I slammed the front door open and dashed into the parking lot. Glancing around, quickly, I didn't see any other cars but my own, parked in the microscopic lot devoted to the insurance agency.

Cursing fluently, I limped back upstairs to my office and called the police department to report the break in. The dispatcher listened to me calmly, and told me that she would have an officer at the scene as soon as possible.

Glancing around at the scattered files littering my office, I mentally shook my head, resigning myself to cleaning it up tomorrow. I knew, deep down, that there was no way I'd be able to get anything else done tonight. Locking my door, I headed to the main entrance downstairs to wait for the officer to arrive.

In less than ten minutes, which I spent sitting on the hood of my car, a black and white unit pulled into the lot. As if my night hadn't gone bad enough, the officer who arrived to take my statement was none other than Erik Farrell. I've had dealings with Erik in the past, both professionally and privately. As far as the professional front goes, you couldn't ask for a more efficient officer. Devoted to justice, he embodied everything a police officer should be. It was the private dealings with him, however, that made me groan when I recognized him. It was the private Erik, the one out of uniform, that made me regret calling the police in the first place.


"Hi, Erik," I said, trying to keep my voice neutral.

"I hear you've had a little excitement around here tonight," he said, hitching his gun belt a little straighter on his hips.

"You could say that, yeah," I replied.

Together we went upstairs to inspect the front door to the office. He wasn't able to see any signs of forced entry. From my vantage point, and with my own sketchy knowledge of breaking and entering, I wasn't able to see anything out of the ordinary either. If I didn't know any better, I'd have sworn that whoever that man was, he had a key to get in. I knew everyone that had a key and the man I saw didn't look like anyone that would have legal possession of a key.

I hung around while Erik filled out the police report, taking down my contact information, and giving me a card with a copy of the control number for the case. Stowing his pen back into the breast pocket of his uniform shirt, Erik turned to me, his manner drastically changed from the professional officer he'd been while investigating the scene.

"You sure you're okay, Alex?" he asked, his eyes roaming across my body. He leaned in and placed one hand on my shoulder. "You look kind of shook up. I get off duty in about an hour. What do you say I come over and we can talk later, huh?"

I pulled away from his contact, smiling to take the sting out of my action. "No, really, Erik. I'm fine. There's no need to do that. I'll just lock up here and head home for the night. Thanks for coming."

It's not typical that I'm abrupt to the point of rudeness, but there's just something about Erik that brings out the worst in me. I can't explain it. All I know is that every time I'm around him, it's like it takes everything within me not to curl my lip in disgust.

Pushing all thoughts of Erik Farrell and the drama that is part and parcel of being around him out of my mind, I trudged back upstairs again in preparation to lock up for what was left of the night. I took extra care in securing the front door, my run-in with the intruder heightening my sense of security. Returning to my office, I loaded up some of the more sensitive things I kept in my office, like my current client files, my financial records and naturally the .38 that I kept locked in my filing cabinet. Double-checking the lock to the French doors leading to the balcony, I locked my office and slipped out the side entrance, lugging the things I'd removed from my office with me. Boxes and files perched precariously on top of each other; I retraced my steps to the parking lot. I loaded the few things I'd removed from my office into the back of my car, got in and pointed my headlights toward home.