He soon realized that there was only one way out. He didn’t have the balls to get it over with himself. He 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, just like he did every night he was sober enough to think, to flog himself for his stupidity. 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 that 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 “Flight 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.
Twenty
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.
“Huh? What was that again?”
“The Nashville police are working two murders. Coeds from Vanderbilt. There are some bizarre aspects to the deaths. I think they may have a serial on their hands. I just talked to the Captain down there. He’s an old friend of mine. Your name came up. Do you feel up to doing a little consulting? Or are you still messing around with your gun?”
Baldwin gave a little laugh. How nice to be so predictable.
“’Fraid I’m a little tied up at the moment, Garrett. With my stellar reputation and all, why the hell would they want me? Let me guess: you didn’t tell him the whole story?”
“Like I said, Mitchell Price is a friend. He knows what went down. He’s a big believer in second chances. So am I. I’m not asking you back to the Bureau. I’m asking you to talk to a friend of mine. Maybe give him a little advice. Maybe sign on for a while to see if they can get this guy who’s hunting young women in your backyard. That’s all.”
“Why don’t you send one of your boys?”
“Because this is right up your alley. You’re already on site. You’re familiar with the territory. And despite what you still seem to consider your little fuck-up, you’re still one of the best in the business. C’mon, Baldwin. Humor me. Get out of the house for a while. Maybe do some interacting with the rest of the world. It might pull you out of the funk. You have been in a funk, right, Baldwin?”
Therapy. Yeah, he was falling for that.
“I don’t think this is such a good idea, boss.”