“I don’t want to push Rogers too hard, but we need answers. You’ve known him longer than I have. I’ll follow your lead on that.”
Bree slowed and turned down a narrow gravel lane that cut through the trees. The isolation of the property didn’t surprise Matt. Rogers was an avid hunter and had been the best tracker in the department. He liked space. The lane opened into a large, neat clearing. The front lawn was thick, green, and free of fallen leaves. The one-story home was more cabin than house. Made of natural wood, it looked as if it had grown there.
As they parked, the front door opened, and Jim Rogers walked out onto the small front porch. A yellow lab pup raced past his legs to the grass as Matt and Bree climbed out of the vehicle. The pup stopped in a sprawl of uncoordinated limbs, then attacked Matt’s foot.
“How old?” Matt crouched and disentangled the pup’s teeth from his bootlace.
“Four months. She’s a holy terror.” But Rogers’s smile was full of affection.
Waving paws far too large for her body, the puppy rolled over for a belly rub.
Bree stopped next to Matt. She leaned over to give the dog a pat. “I can see she’s vicious.”
Rogers shrugged and walked toward them. “She’s a lab. They’re generally friendly if people don’t ruin them.”
Matt straightened and studied Rogers. The former deputy looked rough. An outdoorsman, Rogers was normally fit and lean. He’d lost weight from a frame that couldn’t spare any. His cheeks were gaunt, and his eyes hollow. In the past, Matt had seen Rogers track a suspect all day long through the woods without tiring. Now, his steps dragged with exhaustion.
A month ago, when Matt had run into him, Rogers hadn’t looked this bad. Something had changed.
The puppy peed in the grass.
Rogers praised her. “Good girl.” He held out a hand to Matt. “Nice to see you.”
Matt, then Bree, shook it.
The puppy romped after a butterfly. Rogers turned back toward the cabin and started across the grass. As he went up the porch steps, he whistled. The dog bolted toward him. She stumbled up the steps, slid to a sloppy stop, and nearly crashed into the wall.
“I assume you’re here on business.” Rogers opened the front door and gestured for Bree and Matt to follow him inside.
“Yes.” Bree stepped across the threshold. “Unfortunately, this isn’t a social call.”
Matt entered the house. Based on the plain front facade, he hadn’t expected the open floor plan or modern kitchen. Two sets of french doors opened onto a huge deck. Beyond that, sunlight gleamed off a small lake. The puppy scampered into the kitchen and stuck her whole head into a bowl. More water sloshed onto the floor than went into the dog.
“Nice place,” Matt said.
The pup flopped into a patch of sunshine and closed her eyes.
“Thanks.” Rogers mopped up the water with a microfiber towel. He tossed it over the back of a chrome-and-leather stool tucked under the island overhang, as if he knew he’d need the towel again soon. “I needed a project over the summer, so I did the kitchen reno myself.” He gestured toward a doorway. “The bathrooms are still all 1970s. It isn’t pretty, but I don’t want to demo rooms with an avid chewer on hand.” He gestured toward the sleeping puppy. “I need to focus on Goldie’s training for the next couple of months.”
“Back to hunting then?” Matt asked.
“Maybe.” Rogers went into the kitchen and busied himself with a fancy coffee machine. “Cappuccino?” He gestured toward the stools on the other side of the island.
Matt recognized the island for what it really was—a barrier Rogers had placed between them. “Sure,” he said.
“I never say no to caffeine. Thank you.” Bree slid into a stool. With Rogers’s back to them, Matt and Bree shared a worried look.
“What are you planning to do with Goldie?” Matt asked.
Rogers shrugged but didn’t face them. “Maybe I’ll train her for search and rescue. I haven’t decided yet. I’ll start with basic obedience, then start her on nose work.”
Matt didn’t ask about Rogers’s plans for himself. Neither did Bree.
“Labs are good scent dogs.” Matt sat on the stool next to Bree. He sensed Rogers had something to say but was working up the nerve or gathering his thoughts.
“Yeah, they are.” Rogers took cups and saucers from a cabinet. The coffee machine hissed and gurgled. A few minutes of awkward silence followed as Rogers worked the machine like a professional. He served up white cups of cappuccino topped with foam and a dusting of cinnamon.
Bree sipped hers. “I’m impressed.”
Rogers stayed on the other side of the island. He spun his cup on the saucer for a few seconds, then looked up and met Bree’s gaze. “I’m not coming back to the department.”
“OK.” Bree didn’t sound surprised.
“I won’t stay on disability either.” Rogers motioned toward his leg. “The leg healed well, but . . .” He paused, embarrassment flooding his cheeks. “I can’t shoot a gun. Hell, I can’t even hear a gunshot without breaking into a cold sweat. I doubt I’ll ever hunt again.”
“Most cops never draw their gun in the line of duty. You were in two shootings. PTSD is a valid illness.” Bree set down the cup. “You’re entitled to disability for as long as you need it. You don’t have to make up your mind right at this moment.”
“I’ve been trying to recondition myself to the sound, but even if I eventually do . . .” Rogers shuddered. “I’m never going to be the same. I need to find another career.”
“OK, then.” Bree nodded. “I respect your decision. You’re entitled to disability retirement. That’ll give you time to figure out what’s next.”
Rogers’s gaze dropped. His hands shook, rattling his cup in its saucer. He lifted his fingers off the handle and gripped the edge of the counter. “There are things you don’t know.”
“Do you want to tell us?” Matt leaned his forearms on the island.
Rogers said nothing, but his eyes were haunted.
By what?
Bree looked to Matt with questioning eyes.
“This isn’t about my shooting, is it?” Matt asked. “Because we’ve covered that. It wasn’t your fault.”
Rogers shook his head. “It’s not about that.”
Bree pressed. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Rogers shook his head again, harder.
“OK.” Bree’s voice softened. “We didn’t come here to talk about your return to work anyway.”
“You came here to ask about Oscar.” There was no question in Rogers’s voice.
“You saw the news,” Matt said.
Rogers didn’t move or respond for a few seconds. “He came to see me a few weeks ago.” He paused, as if remembering. A huge sigh rolled through him. “I know it’s not cool to speak ill of the dead, but Oscar was a bastard.” Rogers was working his way toward revealing something, and it felt big. He stared down into his cup. “I’m not proud of the things I’ve done either.”
After a few seconds of silence, Matt prompted him in a gentle voice. “Why did he visit you?”
Rogers rubbed the bridge of his nose. “It’s a long story. I have to start at the beginning.” He began to pace the narrow strip of tile on the other side of the kitchen island. “About two and a half years ago, I was on patrol. Oscar was out that night too. I backed up him and another deputy, Brian Dylan, on a traffic stop. You know how it is—you pull somebody over in the middle of the night, you want someone to have your back. It was a ways out of town on Route 57, out past the tractor supply store.” He pivoted. “When I got there, Oscar was at the driver’s-side door looking at the driver’s documents. There were no passengers, just a lone driver. Oscar asked the driver if he’d been drinking. The guy said no. Then Oscar asked him to step out of the vehicle.” Rogers stopped for a breath.