New Novel Beginning

1.

It was dusk by the time he arrived to the residence. The large two story, concrete home surrounded by palm trees and shrubs was painted white. Four picture windows took up most of the space. No lights were on, only red and white flashing lights lit up the front yard. Officer Anthony Russo swiftly parked the SUV and hopped out, the sticky Florida air smacking him in the face. The yard was littered with officers and SWAT, many pointing and discussing the event in front of them.

His uniform was black, bullet proof vest over that, gun holstered at his right hip. Anger and concern ran across his face.

“The fuck is going on with Mav?” he said. Russo now stood next to Sheriff Carter Child.

“He’s still in the attic, but communication is lost,” Child said calmly.

“Sniper have a visual?”

“Not a clear one.”

“What about Bombay?”

“He’s inside, tryin to get…” his voiced trailed as bullets rang through the house.

“Mother of Christ,” Russo said.

The sudden static of the radio rang through their ear pieces.

“I’ve been hit, I repeat. I’ve been hit,” said Officer Bombay.

He and Child looked at one another.

“How bad?” he said into the microphone.

“In the leg, I dragged myself into the bathroom.”

There was a brief pause.

After a moment, he said “I’m going in.” _______

The silence was welcomed, it always was. Dr. Tiffany Morrison faced him with a warm, delicate smile. Her brown eyes were soft and understanding. A legal pad sat on her lap, while the accompanying black pen was pinched between her thumb and pointer finger. The late spring rain rattled off the window adjacent to the leather chair Dr. Morrison always sat in. The room was lit by the lamp sitting on her desk at the other end of the room. Dimmed just enough to feel cozy and safe, but never too much to fall asleep.

He sat across from Dr. Morrison on the dark grey, corner-framed, poly fiber sofa. A side table was pressed against the armrest of the sofa. He had his left arm on the rest, tapping feverishly on the table top. His leg bounced from the ball of his foot. Anthony Russo looked at her for another brief moment before speaking.

“I’ve hit a roadblock,” he said.

Silence. The only other noise was the tic from the old grandfather clock placed next to the door that led back to the waiting room.

“Explore that,” Dr. Morrison said plainly.

“I’m taking all the blame. It was my fault. None of what happened should have.”

Tiffany nodded.

“If I were there 10 minutes sooner…” his voice trailed off. He looked out at the gloominess.

“Take off the rose-colored glasses. They won’t help you now. They only bring you more pain.”

This was the first time Tiffany Morrison gave him some pushback. She was sympathetic, kind, and understanding before. But this time was different. She saw the slow growth he was having and it was time to make him understand. She wore a black pant suit with 2’’ heels and a matching pearl necklace/earing set. He wore his black uniform. It was wrinkled and worn. She could tell he just got off shift.

“It still doesn’t feel right,” he finally said, not reacting well to her pushback, rubbing his shoulder.

She scribbled something down on the yellow pad, before glancing toward the cherry wood polished clock.

“Time is up for today. We have to dive more into this next week. I know it’s scary, but this is why we are here right?”

He nodded and apologized. She reminded him he never needs to do that and it’s all part of the growth.

She stood and headed toward the door. He soon followed and thanked her.

“I don’t give you much, but I really am trying to overcome all this,” he said.

“I know and you will. That’s why I signed up for this. To help you ‘win’ this battle,” Dr. Morrison said.

They said their goodbyes and he walked down the hall, through the waiting room and toward his truck. The rain had let up just enough so he didn’t have to run through the parking lot. The Adirondack air was cool and crisp; normal after a substantial rainfall. This was one thing he liked better. The humidity all but vanished after a rain. Back in Florida, there was no such thing. Before he could collect his thoughts on what had happened in the last hour, his phone buzzed. It was a text.

“Body found on shore of Bear Pond. Get here ASAP. Chief.”

He shook his head, took a deep breath, and started the Silverado.

“Duty calls.”

Three Days Before

“What can I tell you ma? It’s May. It gets cold sometimes here still,” Anthony Russo said.

He sat on his dock in an Adirondack chair, watching the fog slowly disappear from the water through the mountains. His phone up to his ear, listening to his mother lecture, he checked his watch.

“I gotta go. I have to be at the station by 8. Love you. Bye.”

He ended the call and clicked the phone shut. It was 7 am and the station was 6 minutes away at best. Anthony, Tony for short, looked back out to the water again. Crisp blue peaked through the layer of grey fog more as the time passed. Fulton Lake lay still. The temperature was a cool 58 that morning. Just how Tony liked it. His coffee mug sat on the arm rest; steam escaping the warm coffee. He had already showered, dressed in his uniform, and fed his trusty sidekick Snoopy the cat. His standard issued Glock 22 holstered to his hip. Can never be too careful, even in a secluded area.

Tony was 6 foot flat, muscular, with clean cut hair; shaved on the sides, longer on the top. Easily maintainable. His stubbled face still had a hint of old Florida tan, but was fading. Sun in Upstate New York compared to sun on Gulf Coast Florida was different. He looked out at the calm lake. Looking at a body of water always calmed him, though he could never really could figure why. The reasons didn’t really matter. For a job like his, Tony needed something to calm him. Lifting weights was a stimulate, especially with the caffeine powered pre-workout he drank 45 minutes before each workout. Reading was an escape from the world, even if he followed around a private eye for 265 pages. Therapy was a form of mental exercise, especially the reason behind paying a shrink every week.

Officer Russo looked at his watch again: 7:30. Time to finish up the morning routine. He stood, stretched, and grabbed his coffee. The other side of Fulton Lake was visible now. Camps scattered across the landscape, protected by Camel Hump Mountain. Tony was one of a half dozen full time residence on Fulton Lake, although he was the newest. The lake itself was a part of a cluster of lakes all connected to one another, running through the town of Millstone. He finished off the coffee and walked back to his house. The one-story wooden structure sat back, surrounded by pine and oak trees. Snoopy sat in one of the two screened-in windows of the porch, patiently awaiting his arrival.

After walking through the porch door and greeting the black, white, and brown cat, he headed toward the bathroom to brush and floss. Soon, he patted Snoopy goodbye, locked up the back door and soon was headed toward Main Street. Oakmont Ave was a long, dirt road that hid behind Main. Both sides of the street had homes, both seasonal and year-round. A man dressed in a heavy flannel, dark brown pants, and rubber boots worked on his lawn as Tony passed. They both waved before he turned his patrol truck onto Main.

Connected directly to the New York State highway system, this stretch of road brought the entire town into one. From the research Russo had done, which was minimal, historians touted that this Main St was either the longest or the longest stretch of road in all of New York. This was hard to believe, but Russo wasn’t a history nerd. The sun at his back shown into his rear-view mirror. He picked up his travel mug and sipped on more coffee; then glanced at the clock radio.

7:45

He was two minutes away from the station, which was connected to the town hall. Russo was convinced it was so the town council could keep tabs on the department, especially Chief Robert Flagler. From the few short months Tony was on the job, he gathered the council didn’t like him. Rumor had it was some of the councilmen didn’t see him as an equal. Another was that he drank in excess and had his daughter buy him booze so he wouldn’t get caught. Small towns, Russo also learned, have a way of spreading information. True or fabricated, it didn’t matter, word of mouth info ran heavier than the daily newspaper.

Tony pulled his patrol truck, a late 2000s f150, behind the two-story brick building that sat next to the volunteer fire station that doubled as EMS. Day shift cops had their designated parking and vise-versa for the night shift. He parked in an open spot and stared at the back of the building. Grabbing his lunch box that sat on the passenger side seat, Tony pulled out an orange pill bottle. The script had been peeled off. He let it sit in his hand for a minute. I shouldn’t. I need to control this. He looked back at the building and then the orange bottle. Breathing deeply, he twisted the cap and dumped a white pill into his callused hand; before bringing his hand to his mouth and placing the pill on his tongue. Washing it down with more coffee, Tony put the bottle back into the lunch box and stared at himself through the rearview.

“Not today, maybe tomorrow,” he said before getting out of the truck and heading into work.

_________

He was teaching himself how to be patient. Something he struggled with for a long time. The bar was full. It was one weekend closer to Memorial Day weekend, the unofficial start of summer. More business for the small shops and eateries, which meant more revenue for the town. Tourists horny for summer sun and excitement would be eager to let loose for a weekend. No work, no responsibilities, just fun. That’s how he chose. The careless wonder, looking for excitement. That’s how he would know if they were the right one. He took a sip of his light beer and scanned some more. In the back corner of the bar, you could see everything going on. It wasn’t the fanciest or cleanest, but the booze was cheap and music was upbeat. That’s what made it a hotspot.

The dance floor sat in the center, with the 12-foot bar along the side. Bar top tables scattered the outside of the hardwood for patrons to stand and converse or place their drinks while dancing. The walls were filled with cliched outdoor pictures and artifacts. He laughed at this almost every time he came here. He knew the bartender by name and all the busboys. The owner was never around, so he blended in. Just another patron, enjoying a Saturday night.

A woman, who looked around the right age, walked in just as the next upbeat country song began playing. The ones feeling the song scooted to the dance floor like the parting of the red sea. She had dark hair, dark eyes, and colored complexion. She looked about the right height. Not all the features were spot on, but they were close. He could wait for another to come along. Maybe tonight or maybe another. This is what being patient was all about. Before, he’d jump right up and act on instinct. Part of him still wanted to. He sat back in his chair and held his bottled beer, fighting the urge. She was now at the bar ordering something mixed. She waited for Gary the bartender to mix the drink. She wore a bright pink flannel, tight jeans with holes at the knees, and what looked like beaten up boat shoes.

Then they locked eyes. She smiled at him and put her dark hair behind her left ear. He smiled back and raised his beer toward her. Gary brought back the drink and said something to her. She pulled a credit card from the back of her cellphone and handed it to Gary. She then headed toward him. She’s opening a tab. Maybe it’s go time, he thought, holding back a smirk.