His second shot just grazed my left shoulder. I swiveled and fired at him. Two rounds of .45 ACP slammed into his open polo shirt, and he dropped.
The girl was wide-eyed and panting. Hyperventilating. The gunshots echoed in the still night air. Lights began to come on in the surrounding neighborhood.
I walked over with Mr. Kimber’s sights still trained on the bodies that now lay on the ground. No one was moving. I kicked the guns away from dead hands. The girl’s head was lolling, her eyes distant and unfocused. She seemed fine for the moment, just dazed. Probably drugged her. She barely knew what happened.
I holstered Mr. Kimber and picked up the blouse that lay next to her on the mausoleum steps. Draped it over her shoulders. She looked up at me uncomprehendingly but pulled the blouse around her.
“You’re gonna be OK now. It’s over. Help is on the way.”
I dialed 911.
Dispatch answered on the second ring. I gave her the scenario.
“Shots fired. Casualties. Two shooters down and neutralized. Officer, uh, no, make that one good-guy civilian is armed but unhurt. One female abduction, possible rape victim. Incapacitated. Probably drugged. West driveway entrance, Clearwater Municipal Cemetery. Need ambulance and paramedics.”
It was second nature for me to call 911 or backup in a shooting, but Mr. Brain had to remind me that I wasn’t a police officer any more.
He was right.
I gave my name and phone number. Left the Jeep out on the street so it wouldn’t be in the way.
Several minutes later it looked like a midnight parade on Myrtle Avenue. Blue and red and white lights everywhere. Clearwater PD and EMTs, Fire Rescue, several ambulances. And a couple reporters who had been monitoring the police radio frequencies.
Lights started to come on in neighboring houses. People still in sleepwear were wandering out.
Exciting night.
A few minutes later I was giving Detective Ralph Hamilton, Clearwater PD, my story. We have known each other for years, and we’ve even solved a couple of cases together. He took my statement. It was pretty straightforward. I witnessed the abduction in the apartment building parking lot, followed them to the cemetery. Caught these morons literally with their pants down. About to have non-consensual carnal knowledge with the obviously unwilling female. They wanted to shoot me for interrupting them, but that didn’t work out too well. There wasn’t much in the way of conflict of fact. Several witnesses in the neighboring houses were already outside and were more than happy to give statements. They all verified my account.
Sometime later two gurneys, with dead bodies strapped to them, were rolled into back of ambulances. The girl was treated at the scene, then she too was on a gurney and loaded into an ambulance. But she’d go to the Morton Plant Hospital ER. The two perps were headed for the city morgue.
Then it was all over. The EMTs, fire rescue guys, and cops all finally drove away, leaving the neighborhood to gossip and recount the night’s excitement. And then ultimately go back to bed.
The Clearwater Police Department got the collar, but I got recognition in the paper next morning. Above the fold. Local hero saves damsel in distress. Shoots two bad guys in a foiled rape attempt in a dark Clearwater cemetery. It was a story made for going viral, which it did. It was offbeat, kinky, and macabre all at the same time. The press did a fine job with that, too, and the tongue-in-check references to Wyatt Earp and the O.K. Corral were rampant. But I got in print with full photos and biography.
It was a boost for my business reputation. And to Mr. Brain’s esteem.
It didn’t do jack for my bank account.
Mac had referred to it as the Shootout on Boot Hill. Gun fight in a graveyard. I get it. Very funny. The name stuck.
“Thanks, Mac. Lucky night, that’s all.” I sipped my drink.
“Luck is for old ladies and young lads, me boy-o. Men need to be ever watchful. You watch yourself or you’ll get that tight arse of yours shot off one fine day.”
“Never happen. I’ll die quietly in bed.”
“Aye. And probably with some fair lass who’s not yours.”
I just grunted and shook my head. Never verbally spar with a died-in-the-wool Scotsman. You’ll just look outclassed, and it annoys the Scot.
The whisky was doing its job. I was feeling a little better. Mr. Brain seemed like he was starting to function again.
The drummer in my head was on brushes now.
But the tinnitus hadn’t let up much.
I eyed the pub’s décor again. The Scottish flag, blue with the white cross of St. Andrew, hanging over the bar. Mac’s own MacFarlane clan tartan made up the backdrop for the very rare and expensive bottles of Scotch whisky stored in the ancient glass-front oak cabinet. It brought a little old-world charm to a very new-world Clearwater.
There was a reason.
Mac lived in Dunedin, just up the road on Ft. Harrison Avenue from the pub. It’s almost a Clearwater suburb. The name comes from Dùn Èideann, the Scottish Gaelic name for Edinburgh, Scotland’s capital. And Mac’s home town. So naturally his pub ended up being Scottish themed. That was just perfectly fine by me.
All was becoming right with the world. I was ready to head home. I figured I would have one more drink, then stop on the way home and pick up some takeout for dinner.
Chinese BBQ ribs and some wings. Pork fried rice. I could live on that. Maybe an avocado salad and some salsa and Melba toast for her.
We could eat light at home.
Open a nice wine.
Maybe just catch a movie on TV.
Lounge back. Nice and easy.
I just hoped Rebecca Lynn would be willing to be there too.
CHAPTER THREE
My office condominium contains four offices. There’s a file room, a bathroom, and a conference area too. Mine was the big window office in the back, and I used the conference room and the file room for my business. Once in a while. I rented out two other one-room offices as a full-service professional executive suites operation. The income helped with all the attendant expenses associated with owning a professional office condo. Lots of expenses. Association dues. Insurance. Taxes. Upkeep. Wi-Fi.
My private investigative work was mostly investigating personal injury insurance fraud cases, and they all paid scale. It was a minor scale too. You really couldn’t live on it. So I rented the suites. It was a little better than breakeven, but it was working for me. Besides, it added some much needed human activity to the office. At least when there was more than just me here.
I was tired of doing office clerical stuff. I was restless. I decided I’d done enough for the good of the cause for today. I left.
I went to the houseboat.
I used to live on the houseboat. It was relatively
