takes the attempted murder of a law-enforcement officer seriously even when the attack only results in ten stitches.
Then there were my fellow wardens. Volk showed up in his civilian clothes: the same hundred-dollar suit heâd worn in divorce court that morning.
Volk was a big guy, not muscular so much as heavy-boned and beefy, who had followed a well-worn path to the Warden Service: Marine Corps, jail guard, deputy sheriff, game warden. He still wore his hair shaved down to the scalp in the high-and-tight style heâd first gotten back on Parris Island. The severity of the cut made his ears seem unnaturally small, and I had noticed that they tended to turn red whenever he got angry, which was often.
âYou punched her?â he asked in disbelief. âWhat happened? Did your gun jam?â
He seemed more disappointed that I had not shot Carrie Michaud dead than concerned for my well-being.
My redheaded sergeant, Cameron Ouelette, worried about the state of my mind.
âDo you want to talk with somebody, Mike?â he asked.
âWhat do you mean?â
âShould I call Deb or Kate?â he asked earnestly. The Warden Service had two top-notch female chaplains. Their job was to counsel officers who had witnessed traumatic events or who had suffered themselves from some assault on body and soul. âOr should I call a priest? Youâre Catholic, arenât you?â
âI donât need last rites, Cam. Iâve got a cut on my arm.â
Ouelette had just returned from a training session in crisis incident stress debriefing, or CISD, and so I forgave his superabundance of caution.
The person I found most difficult to face was my newly promoted captain, John âJockâ DeFord. DeFord was a rising star in the Warden Service: a natural leader who was also a natural politician. It was a rare combination, I had found. Cameras loved his blond, all-American good looks. As Warden Service captain, his new duties included supervising the Wildlife Crimes Investigation Division (WCID)âour version of a detective unitâas well as all personnel matters. It was in the latter capacity that he had come to see me.
âThe colonel wishes he could be here,â he said first off.
âI didnât expect him to fly back from Patagonia for me.â
Colonel Malcomb and his new wife were off on the fly-fishing trip of a lifetime in South America.
âDetective Pomerleau told me what happened,â DeFord said, studying my bandaged arm. âHow are you doing, Mike?â
âIâm fine.â
âThose vests we wear arenât knifeproof. The Kevlar is designed to stop a bullet, not a blade.â The captain was in his forties but looked a decade younger on account of being more physically fit than anyone has a right to be. âYouâre lucky you were a moving target.â
âYeah, Iâve definitely had a lot worse things happen to me.â
âBut each one hits you different.â
âReally, Iâm fine.â
âI hope you werenât this cavalier talking to the AAG.â His boyish face darkened. âThat Michaud woman needs to go to jail for a long time, Mike. Her boyfriend, too. You should take a couple of sick days. I wonât force you to do it, but before you start arguing with me, I want you to hear me out.â
I leaned back on the hospital table. The paper under my butt rustled.
DeFord said, âIf youâre back at work tomorrow, Michaudâs attorney might make it look like you exaggerated what happened. How many prosecutions have you seen screwed up because DAs went into trials overconfident in their witnesses, and then they got their asses handed to them by smart defense lawyers?â
âYou want me to buy a neck brace to wear when I go grocery shopping?â
âThis isnât a joke.â
âI understand.â I just hated to see myself as the sort of professional who could be sidelined by ten
Xara X. Piper;Xanakas Vaughn