The Emerald Lie

Park heard the doorbell sound again and now it had that impatient shrill. His mind was still in the white zone, letters tumbling around like confetti. He felt weightless and yet strung out. He opened the door.

A woman in a dark coat and a tall Guard behind her. Beyond her, he could see Garda vans and cars. He thought,

“Uh-oh.”

The woman flashed a warrant card and a formal-appearing sheet of paper. She barked,

“I’m Sergeant Ridge, and this here is a warrant to search your home. You are Parker Wilson, I presume?”

Park found all kinds of wrong in the way she formulated the statement and question. It was in the wrong order.

He asked,

“Shouldn’t you at least attempt civility?”

Then his mind flipped and he lunged at her, but halfheartedly. The ECT had weakened him so it was, at best, a feeble effort but sufficient for the tall Guard to push her aside and tackle Park, bring him down heavily with a severe blow to the back of the head. Add this to the gin and the shock treatment and Park was out.

Ridge muttered,

“Jesus.”

Guards were running toward the house and she got control, ordered,

“Get him in the van, and search this house top to bottom.”

She looked down at the limp form of Park. The Guard asked,

“Is it him, do you think?”

Ridge felt that tingle of greatness hovering, the opportunity to score big. She took a breath, managed a smile, said,

“He is certainly now a person of interest.”

The Guard, a recent convert to U.S. idiom, said,

“Fucking A, sister.”