“Yeah.”
That day a few weeks ago when I told Ben about the wedding from hell and about Matilda, he gave me some simple advice. “Write her back. What have you got to lose?”
The truth of the matter is, he was right. I’ve got nothing to lose. Literally. I have nothing to show for the last ten-plus years. I live in a shitty apartment in a state eleven hundred miles away from home. The only friend I’ve got is Ben, who doesn’t really have time for friends because he’s happily married with two kids. Still, he’s nice enough to invite me to shit so at least I’ve got something happening on holidays, the Superbowl, and so forth. With that said, the letters have given me something to look forward to. And to receive another one, I’ve got to put the effort into sending them back. Sounds fair.
Those were all Ben’s words, by the way—the part about give and take, not about his little family. But, since we’re on the subject of his little family, this is hard to admit, but I’m jealous. He enjoys it—marriage, wife, kids—the whole shebang. As a matter of fact, the times he does chat with me, it’s always about them.
What would that be like? To have people in your life that bring you joy and topics to discuss? Sure, I could talk about my brothers or my parents, but it’s not the same. They aren’tmine.
“What’d she write in this one that has you smiling from ear to ear?”
I slip the envelope from my pocket and carefully pull the letter out. The texture of her stationary is like tissue paper—delicate. “I told her the story of Private Jenkins.” I chuckle, glancing at her words. “She wants to know if his ‘naughty bits’ fell off.” Ben chuckles right along with me. “That dog she’s training is almost ready for adoption.” I reach into the envelope and pull out the small, color photo of the dog. “Here he is. Shep.”
“God, wouldn’t that be an awesome job? Training dogs like that?”
I nod a couple of times. “She really loves doing it.” That gives me something to think about. “How long do you think you’d have to train for that?”
“Ask her.” Ben nods at the letter. “It’d be rewarding as fuck to do that kind of work. Think of the vets she’s helping. Plus, you don’t really have to deal with people all that often. Just animals.” He gives me side-eye. “Since you’re such a people person and all that, it could be the perfect job for you.”
Ha ha. Actually, he does have a point.
“Does she have a big setup?”
“No. She’s got a decent-size yard and a large dog kennel. She only trains one at a time.”
Ben pulls the car into the 24-hour shoppette on-post. He’s got a thing for their shitty Tornado taquitos. They’re gonna kill him, swear to you.
As he’s getting out of the car, he turns to me. “You should do that when you get out.”
“Dog training?”
“The way she does it. To help vets. That could be the business you want to start up, plus give you what you need.”
“What I need?”
“You’re over being a cop. You and I both know that. But you still want to do something worthwhile. That”—he points at the letter in my hands—“what Matilda does, is worthwhile. It’s important. It fucking saves lives, man.” Out of the car, Ben leans down. “You want anything?”
“No. If I eat one of those things, my stomach will revolt.” They’re disgusting. Besides, it’s two in the morning. I’ll wait for breakfast.
Just as Ben steps through the shoppette entrance, I have second thoughts. “Coffee.” I’m tired tonight, and we’ve still got five hours on this shift. I could send him a text, or I can get my ass out of the car and get it myself. Pushing the patrol car door open, I step out of the vehicle. That’s when I see a commotion inside the shoppette—one involving Ben. It’s hard to miss the guy; he’s taller and even broader than me. Going on instinct, I retrieve my weapon from the holster and race to the side of the building shielded by brick and a display of windshield washer fluid. I quickly call on my radio attached to my shoulder, letting dispatch know we’ve got an incident at the shoppette on-post. I peer into the window and see Ben in a scrum with another man. Getting down, I’m about to low crawl to the door when I see two people, a guy and a girl, exiting a vehicle. Knowing there’s no way they can go any further, I shout and gesture for them to get down.
They’re hesitant. Too hesitant, and that’s the moment I hear the popping sound of a weapon discharging and glass shattering. The girl drops fast, blood seeping through the center of her shirt. I need to get to her, but first I have to help Ben get this guy subdued. With time not on my side, I decide to squat and run rather than crawl. I’ve got to get in there, even if the wall is all glass. Broken glass now. I pull the door open with my free hand and aim my gun at a dude who’s aiming it right back at me.
“Drop the weapon.” I feel like I’ve got twenty eyes at once—assessing this situation. I glance right to see if there’s a clerk at the register. None. Don’t know if they fled or if they’re dead. I use my peripheral vision to see if there are any other customers about, but from my vantage point, the aisles in the shoppette obscure my vision.
“No, motherfucker.Youdrop the weapon.” His voice is quavering. “I’m gonna blow your brains out.”
My voice is solid. “Drop it and get down on the floor.” To the man’s left, I see Ben on the floor in the prone position. He’s been hit. Like the girl in the parking lot, blood is seeping through his uniform, but his wound appears to be on his lower back. A through and through, most likely because Ben was attempting to restrain the guy right before shots were fired. I don’t have time to think about Ben though. I say it one more time. “Drop the fucking weapon or I’ll shoot.”
The man’s hand is shaking. Good. The dick with the gun looks like he’s following my orders. I see the weapon move down slightly but not fast enough. The sound of sirens off in the distance is getting closer. This asshole must hear it too because he raises the gun once again. There’s no time. I squeeze the trigger of my Sig Sauer, releasing three quick rounds aimed at the assailant’s chest. He drops to his knees, still clutching his fucking weapon. I race behind him and put my boot on his back to get him down. His gun discharges again, but this time, the bullet goes low and through the glass door I just entered.
Once he’s facedown, I can tell he’s gone, but I can’t risk making the wrong call. I quickly pull his hands back and flex-cuff them together.
Next, I turn to Ben. I lift his shirt and see the wound, center back. I move up to get a look at his face. His color is off; he’s gone from pale to white. “Ben? Stay with me, Ben.” He’s lost a lot of blood. It’s pooled all around him. I jump up and search for tampons in the aisle nearby. When I find the box, I rip it open and am about to I insert the tampon into the wound when a rush of MPs enter the shoppette, weapons drawn. I don’t bother moving. “We need a medic. Now.” My voice is hoarse and loud.
I’m not sure how long it takes, but they’ve finally got Ben on a gurney. He’s alive but barely. The place is swarming with paramedics and other MPs, including my company commander. In the minutes since reinforcements arrived, I learned the woman in the parking lot didn’t make it. Same goes for the fucker with the gun. I’ve handed over my weapon to my captain, answered questions, and paced impatiently as they worked on Ben.
The clerk is alive and speaking with MPs. I overheard him say he ran out when Ben intervened. Ben’s actions saved that kid’s life. I know that for certain. There were no other customers in the shoppette at the time.
