“Well. That’s good then.” We’d been stretched pretty thin.
“I need to tell you something else. I’m quitting effective the end of the month.”
I stopped sipping coffee, put the mug on the desk. “What?”
“I got a job offer in Idaho,” Amanda said. “In one of the ski resort towns. I thought I’d work on my snowboarding.”
“Congratulations.”
“I’m recommending you for Chief of Police.”
I laughed. Hard.
The last year had not been all pleasant. There had been inquiries. The town bloodbath had made the papers in Stillwater and Tulsa. Various insurance companies did not like me. But I had uncovered smugglers and a corrupt police chief. I had been put onto the force full time, a situation which I took as a vote of confidence, although the fact there was nobody else immediately available to do the job was no small part of the decision. There were still a few pending questions (mostly from insurance adjusters) but it looked like there was light at the end of the tunnel.
But Chief of Police? I just couldn’t swallow it. I told Amanda as much.
“Think about it,” she said. “These new guys don’t know the town. Don’t know the people. The town council can appoint you Chief of Police. If you want to be Sheriff too, you’ll have to go get those votes yourself. But you grew up around here. You’ve earned some respect.”
Maybe. I wanted to believe her. I wanted to think the folks in this town would trust me to do a good job.
“Anyway, my recommendation doesn’t mean it’s a done deal. But just think about it. That coffee smells good.”
“Help yourself.”
“Thanks. I think I will.” She went into the back room.
I leaned back in the chair, closed my eyes and sipped coffee. It tasted fine. I replayed the events of that night from a year ago, saw it in my head like a little movie. Me and The chief in that alley. His hand on my throat, the gun against his chest. I shivered just thinking about it. How close a thing it had been. I can almost remember pulling the trigger, or maybe I can only imagine it. I’d been a little fuzzy in the head.
But I’d killed him.
The chief was dead. Long live the chief.
VICTOR GISCHLER is a world traveler, self-proclaimed chicken wing afficianado, Edgar and Anthony Award nominee, Pisces and masked do-badder. His work has been translated into French, Italian, Spanish, German and Japanese. He does not know karate, so feel free to push him down and take his wallet. He earned his Ph.D. in English at the University of Southern Mississippi where they fed him raw liver and beat him with rolled up newspapers. He lives in Baton Rouge with his wife and son.