~ Facade ~

by

Shane Kinsey

Shards of anger sliced through Mike Canyon when he read the fax.

Remember me? After this week, your family will.

He crunched the slip of paper in his left hand and glared at the mayor, picturing him as the author. He pushed away from his desk and shot to his feet. One more minute in the mayor’s presence might cost him his job.

Canyon grabbed his Stetson and peered down at the man he deemed a nematode. There was no way he was going to let a first-term politician tell him how to run an investigation. If the mayor had a problem with treating criminals as criminals, he should get a job with the Public Defender’s office and leave this job to those out to uncover truth.

The mayor’s tan oxfords clicked at Canyon’s heels until they reached the front door. “Find this killer or else.”

Canyon whirled around and planted both feet on the concrete walk in front of the Avoca Police Department. He slapped the Stetson on his head. “Then stay out of my way.” The former linebacker felt like bowling over the city’s quarterback the same way he once sacked Nebraska’s. One more excessive force comment from the man and he might do it.

Canyon slammed the door to his ’68 Camaro and drove to Algoma Park where he sought solace on an old picnic bench.

He smoothed the crinkled paper, massaged his forehead while he studied the message. Normally faxes have sender information printed on either the top or bottom of the page. Not this one. Strange. He rubbed his tongue against the roof of his mouth. The aftertaste of coffee had created a film on his taste buds.

He wadded the paper and slung it at a nearby trash container. The wad struck the rim and bounced off. Someone out there was making this personal. He could handle being the target. Loathed people for involving his family or threatening them.

Canyon leaned back and stared at the changing sky. The sky transposed one color over another until particles of light etched their way through cumulous clouds.

Nature’s peaceful allure thrived in the park. A pair of yellow warblers trilled their sweet-sweet-sweet melody. A robin pranced in the grass. Squirrels embarked in a chase up and down one of the towering trees.

Absorbed in the serenity, the ring from his cellular phone jarred him to reality. He loped to the restored Camaro and pulled open the door. He tossed his hat on the seat and unplugged his cell phone from its charger.

The screen displayed “Lynn” on the caller ID. A warm sense of love washed over him.

He answered and heard, “Have you read the note?”

An icy jolt shot through his heart. Did he have Lynn? Canyon slumped against the car. He pulled the phone from his ear, locked his eyes on it, and drew a deep breath. Every heartbeat pounded his chest.

He put the phone back to his ear.

“At a loss for words, Detective?”

“What do you want?”

“To see how good you are. Recognize the number?”

Canyon scoured everything around him. A man and a woman walked their dogs off the far end of the parking area. He balled his free hand into a fist and squeezed. His forearm muscles flexed rock hard. He jerked open the door and peeled out toward home.

“You so much as touch her—”

The caller responded with mirth. “That’s a hoot. You’re too Christian for that, Detective.”

“You heard me! Not one finger! What do you want from me?”

“A challenge. I want to see if the rumors are true.”

“You’ll lose.”

“I don’t think so. Do you have a guardian angel?”

“I—”

“You’d better hope so.”

“Are you threatening me? You sorry—”

“Now, now, Detective. Like a friend of mine says, ‘Let’s not be judgmental.’ See what you can’t see.”

Ghastly laughter filled Canyon’s ear.

Click.

Dread gripped his heart. All he could think about was Lynn.

Canyon prayed for clear intersections as he zoomed toward home. The Camaro yawed around corners. It bounced through uneven intersections. In one turn, the car banged the rear corner of an Explorer parked at the curb. No time to stop now. He called dispatch to report the incident, fought the wheel as an oncoming Avalanche swerved onto the shoulder to avoid him.

Guardian angel. Did he need one? Why would he?

The car slid to a stop in the driveway. Canyon threw open the door. Darted inside. He sprinted to the master bedroom, the fingers of his right hand squeezing his .40 caliber Glock.

Lynn lay in the bed, covered to her ears with their green and tan print comforter, still as death. Her cell phone was on the nightstand next to a half-full glass of water.

He held his breath and holstered the gun. He pulled the comforter slowly from his soul mate’s face. Fear squeezed his heart for what he might find, six days away from their 25^th anniversary.

Lynn stirred, lids half covering turquoise eyes. “What are you doing here, sweetheart? Is it time for me to get up?”

Canyon exhaled and rubbed her cheek with the back of his fingers. He tucked the comforter under her chin and smoothed the edge around her shoulders. “Just checking on something, honey.” He kissed her cheek, clasped her hand. “Go back to sleep.”

He flipped open Lynn’s phone and checked the call log. Empty. He put the phone on the table, and tiptoed across the room. Shut the door.

He looked in on Wayne. Posters of Third Day and Mercy Me hung on the Dallas Cowboy-gray wall above his head, the seventeen-year-old’s neck crooked forward, his head half-on, half-off the pillow.

Sounds of someone moving across the floor caught his ear. He crossed the hall and paused outside Melinda’s door long enough to hear the open and close of a drawer. The floor squeaked under his left foot.

“Dad, is that you?”

“It’s me. Have you heard anything around here this morning?” he whispered through the door to his firstborn.

“No, sir. Everything’s been quiet.”

“Be careful heading out, okay? I’ll see you when you get back.”

“I’ll be fine, Dad.”

“Jan still asleep?”

Silence.

“Yes sir.”

He continued down the stairs to the den.

Alina, their Siberian Husky, opened one eye, cocked her head, and gave him one of those 'I’m-sleeping-leave-me-alone' looks when he squatted next to her and stroked her shiny coat. She nudged the edge of her bed and whimpered.

“It’s okay, girl.”

He checked the home phone and called the dispatch office. “Hey, it’s Canyon. Have a unit ride by my house and keep an eye on things. Put it on watch for a while. I’ll check in later.”

All the way from the house to his car, Canyon sensed eyes on him. He reached for the door handle, pulled away.

The home of Robert Freeman stood across the adjoining street. Freeman served as pastor at Eureka Baptist Church, where the Canyons used to attend Sunday services. He twisted around and swept the residence and yard with his eyes. Maybe it was nothing. He locked the car doors and strolled around the house before going back inside.