Baldwin knew in his soul that Arlen was guilty. It was the way he acted in his interviews, playing, laughing. How he only truly came alive when they showed him the crime scene photos. It was all there. But there was no evidence.
Their last-ditch attempt to pin the murders on Arlen proved fatal. The evidence they’d been searching for finally appeared, stuffed into the back of an underwear drawer. Arlen had come home and found them rooting through his house, and had gone wild, whipped out a gun and started shooting. All the agents were caught by surprise. Baldwin’s bullets were the only ones that found their mark. He’d killed Arlen, but Arlen had gotten enough shots off before he was hit to kill the other three agents.
The guilt Baldwin felt was overwhelming. He’d lost three good men for no reason other than his own desperation to solve an unsolvable case. Arlen was dead, the case was done. Then another little girl turned up dead. They’d found hairs on her body, and a DNA comparison didn’t link them to Arlen.
There was an inquiry. Baldwin could see the judgment in the eyes of the agents around him. Getting scum off the street was one thing, and Arlen had been scum: a purveyor and seller of child pornography. Losing, no, sacrificing three good men, though, in the guise of taking down a killer? No one accused him directly, but he felt the eyes on the back of his neck. He sat with the ghosts of his friends every night. It was too much, and he left.
By the time he’d arrived at his boyhood home in Tennessee, Baldwin was already too far gone to save. A life sentence for murder would have been easier than a death sentence of freedom. He’d had no contact with his old life for six months, except the occasional phone call from his old boss, which never went well. He’d wallowed in guilt, drank to excess, popped every pill he could find. Anything that would make him numb.
He soon realized that there was only one way out. He didn’t have the balls to get it over with himself, didn’t quite have the nerve to meet his maker straight out. So for the past few weeks, every night, he sat in his chair, playing the game according to his own set of rules.
Baldwin pulled himself back to consciousness. He’d given himself permission to relive the fateful mea culpa, to flog himself for his stupidity, just as he did every night he was sober enough to think. He’d asked forgiveness of his dead friends once more. He wanted to put an end to his overwhelming guilt, to serve his time in hell. He figured it couldn’t be much worse than what he dealt with every minute of every day. That’s where the game came in.
He forced the thoughts away. Took a last gulp of his beer. Palmed the small gun, his throw-down weapon from the old days when he was a decent cop. It was ready to go, like a roommate begging to leave on the ultimate road trip.
He lifted the revolver to eye level. Read the words Made in the USA engraved on the side. It gave him a sense of pride—wouldn’t do to play with anything foreign, despite the supposed origins of the game. He leaned back in the chair and gave the cylinder a spin. One spin, one try. If it didn’t happen, he’d put the gun away until the next night. The ratcheting noise comforted him, and as it stopped he took a deep breath. Put eight pounds of pressure on the trigger pull and pointed it at his temple.
The staccato tones of Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries” filled the silent room, startling the gun from his hand. Baldwin grabbed for it and got a grip on it, then groaned and set the weapon in his lap. His fucking cell phone was ringing. Loudly. Insistently. He choked back a laugh. He’d forgotten to turn it off.
Ignore it! He raised the weapon again. Just do it. You won’t be able to sleep if you don’t play the game. But a thought niggled in the back of his mind. Who the hell would be calling? No one had called in weeks. They’d tried, at first. “Take a leave of absence, Baldwin. We’ll be in touch.” And after the first month, they had been. But the calls inviting him back hadn’t been returned. When the case ultimately resolved, they’d sent him a letter giving him a year’s leave, left him alone to battle his demons.
Shaking his head, the curiosity got the better of him. He had all night to kill himself. Hell, he had the rest of his life to do it. He picked up the phone.
“What?” he barked.
“It’s Garrett.”
Baldwin sighed and gently set the gun back on the side table. Maybe it wasn’t his night to die after all.
20
Baldwin didn’t know exactly how to respond to the man on the other end of the phone. He opted for the truth.
“I’m kinda in the middle of something, Garrett.”
“Baldwin, I wouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t important. I’m sorry it’s been so long. After our last conversation, I thought you’d rather not hear from me.”
Baldwin listened with half an ear to the platitudes from his former boss. His thoughts kept drifting to the gun next to him. Hopefully, this was a last-ditch mercy call and he could get back to the game. His attention gradually drifted back to the phone when he heard the word killing.