He fished out his keys and let himself into his home, slamming the door behind him. He struggled to the back, stopping only to grab a half-full bottle of Wild Turkey, then sat down on his bed and twisted open the lid. The whiskey burned its way down his throat and settled in his gut, and he welcomed the warmth spreading across his belly and, eventually, down to his legs.
Like most days, Hank fell asleep satiated.
“Stay down.”
His eyes fluttered open. The lids were heavy, like they always were when he woke up from a whiskey spree, and it took a moment before he could adjust to the brightness filling up his home. Shit, he’d forgotten to pull the curtains closed again.
Outside, someone was revving their engines, the noise like a sledgehammer working against the back of his skull. Probably that dumbass Jackson kid and his motorcycle. Hank swore one of these days he was going to sneak over there and take that thing apart in the middle of the night.
Hank struggled out of bed but made the mistake of putting too much weight on both legs, and it was all he could do not to howl from the pain.
Sonofabitch.
He finally made his way to the shower and stepped inside, thought about taking off his clothes first, but decided what the hell, his pants were already ruined and his shirt had blood on it already, which meant he was going to get rid of them anyway. He could probably clean the shirt, but that would require a trip to the Laundromat in town, and who the hell had time for that?
“Stay down.”
Would he have gotten up (crawled) for the gun if she hadn’t said that? Maybe. It wasn’t really what she said but the way she had said it, as if she were doing him a favor trying to keep him alive. Or maybe that was just his imagination. In his vast experience with criminals, armed robbers were rarely that kindhearted.
He remembered turning his head and sneaking a look up at her, for all the good it had done. Like the two guys robbing Ben’s with her, she had on a white mask. Nothing fancy — one of those cheap plastic accessories you could get just about anywhere, with a rubber band at the back to hold it in place. She had long, black hair, was slightly taller than average height, and was wearing slacks, a shirt, and a leather jacket. All black.
And gloves. All three robbers had worn gloves.
They’re taking the cell phones, he remembered thinking when he peeked out of the bathroom door and saw them collecting the devices around the establishment.
That was a smart move on their part. Most strong-arm robbers weren’t that clever or didn’t have the foresight to think about what was going to happen after they left, but these had. Taking the phones meant no one could call the cops as soon as they left the diner. And that was exactly how it had happened. After their car, a white Nissan, took off, everyone had scrambled to find a phone. It took someone pulling into the parking lot about ten minutes later before they could even dial 911.
Smart. Real smart.
He recalled their back and forth conversation while he was lying on the floor. They didn’t trust one another. Or, at least, the men didn’t fully trust the woman, and vice versa. So what were they doing robbing a diner together? They clearly weren’t longtime partners, except maybe for the two men, and even that was doubtful—
His accent.
Hank turned off the shower and stumbled outside. He bypassed the bath towel and grabbed his phone from the kitchen counter, slumping into the seat. He dialed the number from memory and hoped they hadn’t changed it since he retired—
“State Police,” a voice answered. “Where may I direct your call?”
“Detective John Miller,” Hank said into the phone.
“What is this in regards to?”
“The robbery at Ben’s Diner.”
“Hold, please.”
Hank did his best to ignore the spots of blood dripping down his leg from his bandaged thigh. At least the pain had lessened. He wasn’t sure if that was because of the adrenaline or from the hot spray—
“Detective Miller,” a voice said through the phone.
“Miller,” Hank said, “it’s me.”
“Me who?”
He sighed. Was the little punk messing with him? If he was, Hank wasn’t going to give Mister Perfect the satisfaction—
“Hello?” Miller said. “Who is this?”
He really doesn’t remember me.
“Hank Pritchard,” he said into the phone.
“Oh, Hank,” Miller said. “You okay? I followed up, and they told me you never checked into the hospital—”
“I’m fine. But listen to me; I thought of something.”
“About the robbery?”
“Yes.”
“Let me get a pen and paper…”
“He’s a Brit,” Hank said. He practically blurted it out.
“What?” Miller said. “Who?”
“One of the guys that robbed the place. The one in charge. Or I’m pretty sure he was the one in charge. He seemed to be calling the shots.”
“Okay. How do you know he’s British?”
“His accent.”
“He had an accent?”
“Damn straight.”
“No one said anything about an accent in their statements…”
“Because he’s good, and he’s probably been around the world enough times that it’s not readily noticeable anymore. It took me just now to remember it. I’m telling you, Miller, the guy’s British. Or he was.”
“Was?”
“It’s a weak accent, but it’s there. He hasn’t completely gotten rid of it.”
“Okay, so he’s a limey,” Miller said. “Or he used to be?”
“You can’t just stop being a Brit, but you can lose the accent.”
“Okay, I’ll take your word for it. That’s good to know, I guess.”
“You guess? That’s it?”
Miller didn’t say anything right away. Hank thought he could hear the little punk actually sighing, as if he were doing Hank a big favor even just talking to him on the phone.
“Well?” Hank said.
“I’m not sure what you want me to say, Hank,” Miller said. “Okay, you’re certain he’s from across the pond — or used to be at some point — even though no one else at the diner heard any accents. I’m going to put that in the notes as a possibility, even though I’m not sure how that helps us catch them.”
“You add it to the profile. Three people. Two men and one woman. One of the men has a slight accent. He’s almost lost it, but it’s still there if you listen closely enough. It’ll narrow down the search.”
“We’ll definitely do that,” Miller said, though there was a lack of conviction in his voice that made Hank grind his teeth just loudly enough that the detective heard it. “You okay, Hank? You don’t sound so good. Maybe you should get some rest and call me again tomorrow when you think of something else.”
You mean “something else more useful?”
“Yeah, okay,” Hank said, and before Miller could say anything else, he hung up the phone.
He sat still for a moment, hands on the dusty oak table that his wife had bought years ago from a garage sale, determined to put it in the RV they would eventually buy when he retired and they drove around the country doing whatever it was that old married couples did. Instead, Hank ended up putting it in this used manufactured home parked barely fifteen miles from the house they had spent so many good years in together.
He was literally sitting in his own liquids, water dripping off his head and soaked clothes onto the carpeted floor. The little rivulets of red coming from his thigh looked more pink now, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.