Sail Cat Road, the sequel to No Good End, continues below. It is being posted tweet-by-tweet daily on Twitter (http://twitter.com/ttaylordude). I will post each chapter here (in chronological order) when finished. Thank you for your time.
Chapter 13
“Was this a sniper shot?” Ritko asked, flashing his badge to different people, expecting the answer to be yes. He was wrong.
“Best we can tell,” said a nurse at the door, “A woman walked in, called for Agent James and pulled a pistol on him right in the lobby.”
“Caught him in the face, as you can see,” said an EMT covering Agent James’ face with a towel. “Won’t be an open casket at his funeral.”
“Witnesses?” said Ritko. “Got to be some witnesses in an ER.”
“Shit happens down here so fast nobody really knows anything. Got their own problems,” said the nurse. “Or they wouldn’t be in an ER.”
“By the time we start asking, they ain’t talking no more,” said a deputy, walking up with a pad of scribbled notes of his own.
“Mind if I ask around?” said Ritko. “Maybe I can get a few answers you guys missed.”
“Have at it,” said the deputy. “Start with them over there in the corner. They were apparently the ones in here when it came down.”
Ritko turned to the nurse, “Mind if I recharge my cell at the desk while I’m asking around?”
“Forgot to charge it?” she said. “You’ll fit right into the news around here lately. Should I go ahead an measure you for a body bag, too?”
Ritko managed a smile and dabbed a trickle of sweat from his temple. “Give me a day or so, then order me a large with double fries.”
The nurse looked over her glasses at him without emotion. “And an extra large smart ass shake?” She waited for him to one-up her comment.
He did. “Sure. I’m not on a diet. Chocolate. I love chocolate. Goes with just about anything.”
“Your friend is dead on the floor and you make jokes? Damn.” she said. “Some kind of loyalty you boys have up north.”
“Agent James was not my friend, he was a co-worker. I hate he’s dead, but I didn’t shoot him. And you started the conversation,” he said.
“I’m from Florida, by the way,” he added. “So considering geography, check a map. You’re the Yankee here.” He had an odd way of flirting.
The nurse left. He approached five people sitting in a corner, looking captured. “My name is Agent Ritko, FBI, Can I ask a few –”
An old woman cut him off. “Ask this, ask that. Ask me did I see what happened. No. Your man got shot up close. That’s what happened.”
“Did you see the shooter? Can you describe him?” said Ritko. “Tall? White? Black? Clothes?”
“White woman. Had on clothes,” she said. “She had a .22 or a .25. My husband had a .25 once. Spanish. The gun, that is. Not my husband.”
The group looked at her and then at each other as if there would be danger in the truth. Ritko waited. “Anything else?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she said, leaned in close studying his face, sucking her false teeth in a chirping sound. “Plenty.” Her breath smelled of snuff.
“She was calm,” said the old woman. “Done it before I bet. A killer. A cold, heartless woman, lonely and suffering. Dead eyes. Manly arms.”
“Did she walk away or leave in a car or did someone pick her up?” said Ritko. “Any details will help.”
“She walked out the slider over door there and was gone,” she said. “Still held her gun beside her like she might use it again. Soon.”
An old man with a cast on his arm suspended by a sling from his shoulder coughed and said, “Bullshit.”
The old woman turned to glare at him. “What do you have to say, sir?” said Ritko. “Did you see something different?”
“The shooter was a tranny. A man dressed like a woman,” said the old man. The others turned away from him. “It’s the truth. You know it.”
“Why do you think it was a man dressed as a woman?” said Ritko. “The manly arms?”
“A wig. Hairy. Needed a shave. That wasn’t no woman unless she was here to get hormone shots or something,” said the man.
Ritko didn’t need to write these details down. They were easy to remember. “Anything else unusual?” he said.
The old man adjusted his sling. “A man wearing a dress shows up in an ER and shoots another man in the head is not unusual enough for you?”
“It is, but did you noticed any specific detail that might help ID this shooter?” said Ritko. “Any marks, tats, piercings?”
“Had hands like a man. Not a man who is just out dressing up like that for the fun of it, but hands that told a story. Dangerous hands.”
“And the story? Got any thoughts about that?” said Ritko. “It may help save others lives.”
“Don’t BS me, Mr. I know fertilizer. I worked in a manure plant for years. No lives will be saved in this. Count on it. That’s the story.”
“We can help stop that,” said Ritko. “I can help stop it, but I need your help to do that. I just need more info. You understand?”
The man did not understand. Understanding was not part of his makeup. He was genetically confused, possibly insane – or just sadly normal.
“The woman looked like a woman I knew from a different place,” said the man. “Like my wife, maybe. Except she’s been dead for five years.”
Ritko put his pad away. This was worthless. The ER was filling with Deputies, FBI, doctors and nurses. Agent James lay inside a chalk line.
“I’ll tell you about the shooter. Big, course hands. Tight-end hands,” said the old man. “Had a wrist tattoo of a snake. It was all red.”
The old man’s eyes were jerking, either from fear or meds. Ritko had his first clue. “Red like fresh and raw or red ink?” he asked.
“Red ink,” said the man. “With three letters around the snake’s head: R.I.P.” Seems like an odd name, don’t it? Rip. Like that actor.”
Ritko knew exactly what it meant. The shooter was, indeed, not a woman. He was a man named Fussell Duware – Ritko’s ex-partner.
There was only one problem. Duware was dead. Ritko had been with him when he died; or so he thought. He actually never saw a body.
Duware was hit by friendly fire in a raid on a dockside warehouse south of Panama City on Saint Andrew Bay. Ritko had pulled the trigger.
In his business, when a guy goes down, no matter how it happens, it doesn’t happen. There are no records. It’s like he disappears.
The memory of seeing Duware in the water ferreted around in Ritko’s head until a squeaky voice cut through his thoughts.
“Jimmy Gantt will be here soon.” The old woman stared at Ritko like he owed her money. “Or Jolene will. And your snake man will die.”
