Too Far Gone

11

When the phone rang, Michael Manseur had been asleep less than forty minutes. His wife, Emily, rolled over to face him as he put the receiver to his ear. The clock read 5:12. Manseur repressed a groan.

“Hello?”

“Detective Manseur, Jackson Evans.”

Manseur sat up. “Yes, sir.”

“I’ll see you in my office in one hour.”

Manseur started to say something, then realized that his superintendent had already hung up.

“Is everything all right?” Emily asked.

“Cover your eyes, doll. I need to turn on the light for a second.”

“You’re not getting enough sleep, Michael,” she scolded gently. “You need to take a few days off.”

“That isn’t going to happen any time soon.” He settled back into the pillows with a soft sigh. “With authority comes sacrifice.”

“You didn’t sleep a night through when you weren’t head of Homicide.”

“I didn’t?” he said, smiling. “No, I guess not. Shouldn’t miss what I never had.”

“Who was that on the phone?”

“The super.”

“What did he want?”

“He wants you and the girls to evacuate to Birmingham.”

“The hurricane isn’t definitely coming here, Michael. If it becomes obvious that it is, we’ll go.”

“Get everything packed this morning. I filled the Toyota last night. I want you and the girls gone while the going’s good. No arguing, please, Emily. I can’t get my work done if I’m worried about y’all.”

“Okay. We’ll leave this afternoon. Now, what did Evans really want?”

“I think he wants to give me a lesson on how gravity affects stinky objects that have been set into motion down an incline.”

Emily laughed, placed her hand on his arm. “You need to learn to step out of the way of trouble, Michael.”

“Darling, I try. But sometimes the trouble that gets in my way comes at me faster than I can jump clear.”