Chapter Four

This wasn’t the best of neighborhoods, especially after sundown, but certainly not the worst. Then again, rising crime left few places safe. Most importantly, no one knew Morrisey around these parts except the owner and employees. Or if they did, they considered it none of their business. Hiding buying booze might be a warning sign of alcoholism, the ghost of Will whispered into Morrisey’s ear.

Morrisey would quit drinking. Just as soon as he got past the current shitstorm.

If another shitstorm didn’t take its place.

Ah, a parking space right out front. Could the universe be giving a tiny, tentative smile?

The windows displayed various signs, both old school and neon, advertising beer, wine, and liquor.

Morrisey could nearly taste a drink of whiskey already.

Three men loitered on the corner, passing a joint. Not worth the bust. A woman he swore he’d seen at a twelve-step meeting sat in an idling car, contemplating the door.

Morrisey had no reservations and hadn’t seen his Alcoholics Anonymous chip in days. Maybe he should’ve buried the chip with Will. He placed his palm on the door handle of the place he’d frequented so often he never had to peruse the shelves. Nope, the clerks saw him coming and loaded the counter with bottles of tequila and whiskey, never asking questions and not calling him by name when they checked his driver’s license as so many places did. Two full, dusty bottles of vodka remained back home. Morrisey couldn’t bring himself to drink them. They weren’t his.

Vodka martinis had been a Craig thing.

Morrisey jumped back, the door nearly smacking him square in the face. “Hey! What the hell?”

A short man in a green T-shirt and faded jeans ran past, heavy work boots stomping out a cadence on the asphalt parking lot. Asshole nearly knocked Morrisey down!

“Stop him!” a woman shrieked from inside the building. “He shot Bob!”

What? Morrisey poked his head in the door long enough to ask, “Called 9-1-1?”

The woman acknowledged Morrisey with a nod, a phone pressed to her ear.

The liquor store’s owner lay sprawled on the blood-drenched linoleum, too much of his face missing to need medical care. Fuck. Bile rose in Morrisey’s throat. “Tell ‘em Detective James is giving chase.” So much for another evening of drunken bliss. And of anonymity in this store. He’d outed himself as a cop.

But like hell would anyone get away with shooting Bob. Morrisey pounded after the fleeing man. Shit. These loafers weren’t meant for running.

Still, the perp was short and maybe not too fast. Morrisey ran through the memories in his head, approximately one hundred thirty pounds, five-four or five-five, copper hair, no glasses, and no other distinguishing characteristics. Were the eyes blue? Better to imprint the image now with a clear mind in case he didn’t catch the bastard.

Bob. The red-haired bastard fucking killed Bob. Why? Bob was a likable man, a retired teacher who sometimes indulged excessively in his stock,resulting in show tunes occasionally emanating from the liquor store”s front door.

The register couldn’t have held much cash. Damn the rising crime rates.

Morrisey sprinted down the sidewalk, dodging pedestrians and one small, yappy dog on a leash, spotting the perp ahead, dashing through the shadows and light of street lamps. The man cut down an alley. Morrisey gritted his teeth in a humorless grin, knowing this neighborhood well enough to save time by ducking into the late-night laundromat and out the back door.

The suspect spotted Morrisey and turned back toward the main thoroughfare. Fuck. Not such a good idea to herd him toward people if the asshole still had a gun.

Morrisey hauled ass, ripping Agnes out of her holster. Thank God he’d forgotten to leave her in the car. He cut the suspect off at the corner, forcing him back down an alley, away from innocent bystanders. “Stop! Police!”

The man spun. Crack! The motherfucker was shooting? Another shot whizzed by. Damn! Close one!

Morrisey dove behind a dumpster, standing ankle-deep in who knew what. Breathing through his mouth kept the stench to a minimum. His heart pounded a hard rhythm. He’d gotten too out of shape to chase down younger men. “This is Lieutenant Morrisey James of Atlanta PD. There’s only one way out of this alley,” he called out. “Through me, and I’ll tell you right now, you ain’t gettin’ past.”

A gunshot rang out, a solid thunk against the dumpster. Asshole definitely still carried the gun—and couldn’t aim for shit. Still a danger, though. He might get lucky.

Morrisey gulped. How many shots did the gun have left?

He took out his cell phone, hitting the number for dispatch. “Detective Morrisey James,” he shouted. “Officer under fire, requesting backup.”

Another shot pinged off the wall overhead. “I’m in an alley off Peach Tree by the Dollar General. One perp, armed, dangerous, suspect in a murder.” Morrisey disconnected the call, shoving the phone into his pocket. Now to stall this son of a bitch until help arrived.

The alley grew quiet, though distant street noises hid any footsteps. Where was the asshole now? Morrisey held his breath, straining his ears for any sound.

Another shot came from his right. Morrisey spun, squeezing off a shot on pure instinct.

A dark shape fell backward, crashing to the ground.

Fuck. Shooting a suspect meant paperwork and investigations. More aggravation Morrisey didn’t need. He’d worry later about possibly taking someone’s life. Cops shooting suspects was bad news, and him without a body camera to back up his story. No one likely put a security camera in this stinking, filthy alley.

Step by slow step, Morrisey approached the fallen figure, Agnes clutched tightly in his hands. Sirens blared in the distance. The suspect moaned.

Still alive.

Morrisey drew closer, barely making out details in the feeble light from a streetlight outside the alley.

The red-haired man writhed on the ground, gripping his stomach. Morrisey kicked the guy’s gun farther out of reach. Sirens shrieked closer.

A pained whimper escaped the man as his face contorted in a grimace. The alley reeked of blood, piss, and other foul odors. “Help me!”

Morrisey went down on one knee, Agnes still in hand. Just because the suspect went down didn’t mean he’d stay down.

The suspect launched himself upward in a blur too fast to track. A human freight train plowed Morrisey to the ground. His breath left him in a whoosh. Wide eyes stared down. A grinning mouth full of blood-drenched teeth added to the horror.

How the hell was this bastard fighting with a hole in his gut? Scrappy motherfucker straddled Morrisey, gripping Morrisey’s head in bloody hands, squeezing with both palms. What the fuck was he doing, trying to explode Morrisey’s skull?

The moment the man’s palm connected with Morrisey’s skin, impressions came. Hunger. Intense, burning hunger. Rage. Hate struck Morrisey like a searing flame, almost burning.

Must. Get. Away.

Through a haze-like heat rising from hot pavement, a hideous, grinning maw overlaid the man’s face. A droplet of blood spattered Morrisey’s cheek, wrenching him from the vision.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Morrisey chanted. Pain seared through his brain. Oh, God! He grabbed at the asshole’s hands, blindly fighting for his life. Where was Agnes?

The hands wouldn’t move. Instead, Morrisey grappled for purchase around the asshole’s neck, need now consuming him. Need for what? How in God”s name was the man so ridiculously strong? Images flashed against Morrisey’s eyelids: purple sky, horrifying creatures, horrifying deeds. Killing Bob just to enjoy his fear. Morrisey’s stomach lurched.

He rolled them with the last rally of his strength, landing on top, broken asphalt digging into his knees. Those vise grip hands held tight. Stars danced before Morrisey’s eyes. Would he die from having his head crushed like a walnut? He gasped for breath, tried to scream, to claw at muscle-corded arms.

“Let go of me, motherfucker!” Morrisey’s blood-slicked grip wouldn’t hold. He plunged his knee into the guy’s groin with all his might. The man didn’t even flinch.

“Let me in!” the man hissed through gritted teeth.

Let him in?

White light exploded down the alley, chasing back shadows, pure, brilliant, blinding. Surely not a car. No car had such bright headlights. For one long moment, time stood still, then the man beneath Morrisey howled and went still.

Morrisey collapsed onto the putrid, dirty asphalt. Air! He needed air. Clutching the sides of his head didn’t ease the pain. “Oh, God, it hurts!”

A concerned face peered down: crystalline blue eyes, golden blond curls, handsome face.

An angel. Was Morrisey dying, and a divine creature came to take him to the afterlife like his mother once told him would happen? He’d not lived a good enough life for Heaven.

He reached out his hand, needing to touch the angel to prove it was real.

And possibly lose himself in those eyes.

All went dark.