Cherry Bomb

CHAPTER 47

BY THE TIME I found a room for the night I was a mess. Mentally, physically, emotionally. I’d walked several miles, freezing my tail off, before finding a small mom-and-pop motel with carpeting older than I was. I ate out of the lobby vending machine, not tasting a damn thing, and drew a bath in a cracked tub with water tinted orange.

I crawled in and let the guilt overtake me, crying until my throat hurt. Mixed with the guilt was shame, for not being there for Herb when he needed me most, and anger, at Phin and Harry and Alex, but most of all at myself for allowing all of this to happen.

And hate. I felt hate so dark it scared me. I didn’t just want to kill Alex. I wanted to burn her alive and watch her scream. I’ve lived-hell, I’ve dedicated my life to upholding the law, but I would trade every arrest I’d ever made, ever perp I ever put behind bars, for twenty minutes alone with Alex in a small cell, her handcuffed to a chair, me with a baseball bat.

What had I become?

A drip, from the lime-coated showerhead above me, dimpling the surface of the water between my feet. I stared up at it, and then the shower curtain, old and stained but on an aluminum rod that looked strong, sturdy. It would probably support my weight. I didn’t have any rope, but there was a gas station on the corner.

Stupid. Cops don’t hang themselves. They eat their guns.

I thought about the Beretta in my backpack. One bullet, and I’d stop feeling this awful. I’d let so many people down, myself included. One bullet would make it all go away.

You’re being weak, Jack.

So? Can’t I be weak for once?

Killing yourself is the coward’s way out.

Okay, I’m a coward. One more reason to hate myself.

I stood up, walked naked into the bedroom. Stared at my backpack.

You’re seriously considering this?

A sob caught in my throat. I blinked away some tears.

Yes. It’s the best idea I’ve had all week.

I reached my hand inside, wrapped my hand around the butt of my gun. It felt solid. Reassuring.

Just do it.

I closed my eyes, tried to think of a reason to stop myself. Faces popped into my head.

Mom, begging me not to.

Sorry, not good enough.

Dad, tacking an article about my suicide onto the wall in his spare bedroom, to add to the dozens of other articles and pictures of me.

Take it all down, Wilbur. I’m not worthy of a shrine.

Harry, telling me I hated myself.

You nailed that one, bro.

Phin, saying he loved me.

Looks like you’ll outlive me after all.

Alex, laughing at all the pain she’s caused.

Not my problem anymore.

Latham, his kind, sad, beautiful face, telling me I had to be strong.

Why? Why do I have to be strong all the goddamn time? Where has it gotten me?

Alan, his eyes rolled up in his head…

Enough. I’m done.

I want out.

I opened my mouth, brought up the gun, my hand shaking so much I had problems getting the barrel between my lips.

Lieutenant Jacqueline Daniels vs. the world.

The world wins.

It always does.

I flicked off the safety, put my thumb on the trigger, and opened my eyes so I could watch myself do it in the bureau mirror. I wanted the last thing I ever saw to be how pathetic I looked.

Movement, peripherally, to my right.

My gun pointed reflexively, and I pulled the trigger on instinct.

Rat. Big one in the corner.

Deader than hell now, without a head.

I laughed, once, but it sounded more like a strangled cough.

In a way, that’s all I was good for. Killing rats.

But I was good. I was very good.

And there was still one rat left to kill. The biggest one of all.

I put the gun back in the pack, got dressed, and called a cab to take me to a better motel, all thoughts of suicide momentarily replaced by thoughts of murder.