Lover's Bridge Pt. 03

Lover's Bridge, Pt. 03

A Sheriff Ryan Caldwell story

Apologies for taking so long to get this series out. I've been quite busy lately with two other projects, including my fourth e-book, "Son of Baalak," which is now live. I also wanted to get this mostly completed before I submitted the first part.

Many thanks to QuantumMechanic1957 for beta-reading this. In my opinion, his suggestions have helped make this a much better story. Also, many thanks to those who have offered comments and constructive criticism on my previous stories. This story was inspired, in part, by several streaming series with the same basic opening.

And now, the disclaimers:

For those who want to say this or that would never happen, remember this is my universe, a place where nearly anything can, and often does, happen. At least on paper... In addition:

1. Characters in this story may participate in one or more of the following: Smoking, consumption of adult (meaning, alcoholic) beverages, utterance of profanities.
2. All sexual activity is between consenting adults 18 years of age or older.
3. Statements or views uttered by the fictional characters in this story do not necessarily reflect the views or opinions of the author.

Please refer to my profile for more on my personal policy regarding comments, feedback, follows, etc. (Yes, I DO moderate comments) And please remember, this is a work of fiction, not a docu-drama...

Ryan Caldwell made his first appearance in my seven-part series, "A Father's Justice." He was also featured in "Tip of the Spear," and in "Justice Ch. 04: Old Scores." The town of Hard Rock, Texas, to the best of my knowledge, does not exist.

...

End of "Lover's Bridge, Pt. 02":

"I've seen you before, Sheriff," she said. "I can't quite place it, but I know I've seen you... somewhere. I never forget a face."

"I have done a lot of traveling over the years," Ryan said. "Maybe our paths crossed somewhere and we didn't even know it."

"Maybe," Azalea said quietly. "I guess I'd better go with your Deputy Sanders."

"No cuffs this time," Ryan said. Azalea offered a slight enigmatic smile in return as she walked out of the room. Ryan followed her out, and watched as Sanders escorted her and Roland down the hall.

"What do you think?" Ray asked.

"I think someone went to a lot of trouble to make this look like a crime of passion," Ryan replied. "And I also think that severed foot holds the key."

"I agree," Ryan said. "What do you suggest we do?"

"It's been a very long day - for all of us. I don't know about you, but I'm going home. After I eat dinner, I plan to make love to my wife... maybe even massage her feet," Ryan said with a smile. Ray smiled in response. "It'll come to us. Let's talk in the morning after we see what Sanders finds."

"Sounds like a plan, Sheriff," Ray said. "See ya in the morning."

...

And now, "Lover's Bridge, Pt. 03":

9:00 am September 23, 2022

Ryan finished his morning routine at the office and called a meeting with Ray, Ron, and Deputy Sanders. He instructed them to meet him in the main conference room, as he felt his office would be too crowded for all four of them.

"How did it go?" Ryan asked Sanders about the previous afternoon's search of the Dupont home.

"Pretty well," Sanders replied. "Mrs. Dupont and Mr. Waters were cooperative, stayed out of the way. We got Mr. Dupont's computer, and handed that off to Ron. Didn't find anything else worth noting."

"Good. Ron?" Ryan asked, looking at his forensic specialist, who he knew had been overwhelmed the last few days.

"As you know, Sheriff, we've been up to our asses in alligators these last three days," Ron began with more than a trace of exasperation.

"Yes, I know. But that's what you get the big bucks for, right?" Ryan asked, prompting chuckles with varying amounts of humor throughout the room.

"Yes, I suppose it is," Ron agreed with a rueful smile. "We're still combing through everything, but I can tell you this. There's no evidence that Mr. Holder touched any of the material retrieved from the storage locker in his shop. No fingerprints, no residue - nothing."

"You're suggesting it was staged to make it look as though he was involved with making meth and or bombs?" Ryan asked pointedly.

"That's exactly what I'm suggesting," Ron replied. "I can also confirm the second phone found in Mr. Holder's truck belonged to Mr. Dupont, and the messages sent to Mrs. Dupont and Mr. Holder originated from that phone. The finger found in the truck was used to unlock it."

"I think it's pretty safe to assume that Mr. Holder was not fluent enough in French to message Mrs. Dupont," Ryan said dryly. Can you determine where the phone was when those messages were sent?" he continued.

"Good question, Sheriff. I can't, but the cell provider probably can," Ron noted. "Or at least the general area."

"We found cell phone bills in Dupont's office," Ray said. "All we need to do is verify those bills were for that phone, and we can demand the information from the provider. We'll probably need another warrant, though."

"Sanders, check into that, and get the warrants," Ryan said.

"Got it, boss," Sanders said, writing in his notebook.

"What's your take, Ray?" Ryan asked.

"At first, I thought this was a crime of passion - man comes home, finds his wife in bed with another man, kills them both. But after seeing the evidence, I'm convinced that was a set-up."

"What are your thoughts?" Ryan asked.

"I believe that foot in Holder's freezer was meant as a warning," Ray said. "Have you ever heard back from Mrs. Dupont's former commander?" he asked Deputy Sanders.

"No, Detective, I haven't," Sanders said.

"I'm not surprised," Ray replied. "Probably trying to figure out what's safe to send. They're not under any obligation to send us anything, anyway." He looked at Ryan. "Why don't you let me see what I can shake loose, Sheriff?"

"Do your best," Ryan said. "Is there anything else?" Everyone shook their heads, so Ryan ended the meeting. "All right. Get to it. We have a lot to go over yet." Ray hung back after Sanders and Ron left the room. "What's on your mind?" Ryan asked Ray.

"I didn't want to say anything in front of the others, but I'm curious to know how you know... Mr. Waters," Ray said carefully.

"I... appreciate your discretion, Ray," Ryan said quietly. "We worked together a few times in the past," Ryan answered matter-of-factly. "Yes, he was a mercenary, like me. Quite proficient with a Thompson gun, by the way."

"A Thompson gun?" Ray asked, shocked. "I didn't know anyone still used those old things."

"Well, Roland did," Ryan said with a chuckle. "And he was very good with it. A lot of stopping power; anyone knocked down didn't get back up. Had quite a reputation. Roland the Thompson Gunner."

"Is he still..."

"No," Ryan said shortly, interrupting Ray.

"All right," Ray conceded, deciding that discretion was best. "So, what are you gonna do?"

"I think I need to have another discussion with Mrs. Dupont," Ryan replied. "And with Roland. While I'm out, I'll go see old man Holder. I owe him that much."

"Sounds good," Ray said. "I'd better get to it." They said their goodbyes and went their separate ways. Ryan drove to the Dupont residence, parked, and went to the front door. He didn't see Roland's rented Toyota and wondered where he was. Azalea must have seen him stop because she opened the door before he could knock.

"Sheriff, please come in," she said stiffly. "Have a seat," she added, motioning toward the couch. "Can I get you something to drink? I just started a pot of coffee."

"Thank you, Mrs. Dupont. Coffee would be good."

"How do you take it? Black?"

"That would be perfect. Thank you," he replied. He watched her walk into the kitchen, taking note of her gait. Her prosthetic foot didn't seem to be an impediment whatsoever. She returned a few moments later with two steaming cups of coffee.

"What can I do for you, Sheriff?" Azalea asked after she sat down.

"I have a couple of questions for you," Ryan said.

"Of course you do," she said calmly.

"I know you were in the Quebec Provincial Police, and that you lost your foot during your service. I'd like to know what happened."

"Is that because of the foot you found?" she asked.

"Yes. I think it was intended as a message to you. Perhaps a warning of some kind." Azalea thought for a few moments, then nodded her head.

"You could be right, Sheriff," she said. Pausing, she sighed. "We were investigating a string of murders that led to the discovery of a meth lab in an old abandoned warehouse. We moved in to close it down but didn't realize the building was wired with remote-controlled IEDs. I was in the lead of my group when the device went off. The next thing I remembered was waking up in the hospital."

"Did they capture the suspects?" Ryan asked.

"I was later told they captured one person. The rest eluded capture."

"I'm trying to understand why someone would keep something like that foot for nearly five years," Ryan told her, watching her reaction.

"I have no answer for that, Sheriff," Azalea replied, no emotion on her face. Ryan studied her closely for a few moments before speaking.

"How was your relationship with your husband? I'm only asking because you don't seem to be very broken up over his murder," he finally said.

"Would my breaking down in hysterics change anything, Sheriff? Would my tears cause Phillipe to rise from the dead and walk through my door?" she responded, her sudden, no, instant anger barely contained. Ryan wasn't expecting this.

"No, of course not," he told her mildly. "I just expected a different response."

"I grieve in my own way," Azalea said quietly, with bland dignity. She looked vaguely at the wall behind him as if it was not quite in focus. Ryan blinked. The near explosion of anger was also nearly instantly quenched... or shoved back into some emotionless rucksack for a later time.

"You never answered my question. How was your relationship with your husband?" Ryan asked.

"We had a good relationship, Sheriff. Believe it or not, I loved him. And I know that he loved me. More important, he respected me - respected my boundaries. And he accepted my... peccadilloes. Without question. You may have noticed that I am not like other women," she said quietly.

"Please explain," Ryan said. Of course, he had noticed her eccentricities - who couldn't? But he didn't want to alienate her.

"Unlike so many other women, I am not swayed by trinkets or shiny baubles, nor can I be plied with... alcohol. A man would have a better chance offering me a cup of coffee than a glass of wine. You see, my father was a military officer who taught me the benefits of duty and staying true to oneself.

"My mother, on the other hand, was... flighty. She let herself be attracted to whoever offered the shiniest toy. While my father was off serving our country, she was out seeing only to herself and her own selfish desires, often leaving me to fend for myself.

"One winter night, she and her... date... hit a patch of black ice and ran off the road, rolling down a deep ravine. They found her dead body the following day, her dead lover's cock still in her mouth. My father was devastated both by her death and by her infidelity.

"I ended up making the funeral arrangements. I also had to put my father back on his feet. It was then I swore never to be like my mother. I also promised that I would never allow myself to be so dependent on another person. Not like my father."

"I'm sorry to hear that. How old were you when this happened?" Ryan asked.

"I was 15 when my mother died," Azalea answered. "From then on, I focused on my studies and, later, my job. When I met Phillipe, he seemed to understand me. He never pressured me, and he never tried to impress me with his money or with shiny objects. He respected me, and we got along well.

"We established... rules... that we could each live with. Phillipe followed the rules until we moved here. Then things began to change. He met that Carmelita woman, and began flaunting his affair with her. I knew she was married, and was concerned that her husband would take action against Phillipe."

"But he didn't," Ryan interjected.

"No, at least none that I was aware of," she said.

"So, where is Mr. Waters? I didn't see his car when I pulled up," Ryan said, trying to change the subject.

"He is tending to some personal matters. I offered him the use of my guest room until this situation is resolved, so he is checking out of his hotel and bringing his things here," Azalea explained.

"I see," Ryan replied.

"How do you know him, Sheriff?" she asked.

"We met a few times. A long time ago."

"When he was still Roland the Thompson Gunner?" Azalea asked, one brow arched high.

"I suppose you could say that," Ryan chuckled.

"I told

you I never forget a face. And now I remember where I saw you last. Although you probably don't remember me. It was not quite 15 years ago before I joined the Surete. I was a 20-year-old college student on break, so I traveled to Africa for volunteer work," she said.

"Oh?" Ryan asked, pretending to be only mildly curious. He still found it... disconcerting... when reminders of his previous life intruded on his present one.

"You didn't have the scar, the eye patch, or the beard. But it was you. You and your men rescued us all from that warlord. I watched you. Saw you killing those men with little to no regard. Certainly, without a second thought. I've always wondered what drove men like you to do the things you do... did." Her tone was flat, Ryan noted, as if the curiosity was strictly intellectual, with no trace of emotion. He wondered briefly if she had always been like this or if some traumatic event had left a deep mark.

"That was a dark time in my life," Ryan said quietly as he recalled that mission, looking her right in the eye. He and his men had been paid handsomely to rescue the wife and daughter of a very wealthy man from a power-mad warlord with more dollars than sense.

Despite his benefactor's instructions, Ryan couldn't stomach the idea of leaving the other passengers behind, so they rescued everyone the warlord's men had captured, then escorted them back to the airport, where they boarded their plane safely and departed for the States.

Ryan remembered the way the woman's husband complained afterward. Still, one murderous look shut him up, and the man had turned an interesting shade of red when he had noted, "NO extra charge," through gritted teeth. Standing there bedecked with armament and still smelling strongly of powder residue tends to quell arguments quickly.

That was only a few months after his old friend Bill Johnson recruited him as a soldier of fortune to escape what his first wife and daughter had done to him. For years after that, every time Ryan pulled the trigger, he imagined his target was one of the three people who had betrayed him and destroyed his family - the third person being the late Jacob Knight, who seduced his first wife and stole his family. Knight had subsequently subverted his wife into becoming the corporate whore at 'Executive Retreats'; she had almost dragged their daughter into the depraved lifestyle after her... for fun and profit.

Ryan had since reconciled with his daughter, who grew up quickly after realizing what Knight had done. His first wife, Lisa, was still in a long-term care facility, barely functioning independently after being seriously wounded by a gunman in the company parking lot. Her intimately detailed knowledge of the executives' shenanigans had made her a liability.

Over the years, Ryan kept infrequent, discreet tabs on Lisa. She had no reason to like him much, and he had a low tolerance for being blindsided. Knight was no longer in the picture, dying from a terror-induced heart attack after a court appearance. He and Knight both got off easy; Knight got to die of natural causes instead of being drowned in a toilet. He had not had to carry another killing on his soul, however well deserved.

"I... apologize. I did not mean to conjure up bad memories," Azalea said quietly, snapping Ryan out of his thoughts. She used 'apologize' as if it were an unfamiliar word. "Perhaps I could help you forget those bad memories. I've been told I'm a memorable fuck."

The casual, bland tone of the statement was as jarring as the statement itself. Ryan wondered if she thought of it as thanking the mercenary who had saved her or if she simply, as Roland had said, 'liked to fuck.' He wondered what void that filled in her life.

"Thanks, but no thanks," Ryan said with a slightly awkward chuckle. "I'm very happily married," he added, holding his ring finger. "And Beverly does a wonderful job helping me forget the bad times."

"I'm glad for you, Sheriff. We should all be so blessed. I would be very... interested... in meeting the woman who could make you forget the bad things you have certainly experienced," Azalea said with a slight smile.

"I'll talk to her," Ryan promised. "In the meantime, I suggest you take whatever steps you need to protect yourself. If you like, I can assign a deputy to you."

"I'm perfectly capable of protecting myself, Sheriff. But thank you for the offer anyway," Azalea responded neutrally as if she were describing running to the store for milk.

"I bet you can," Ryan thought, trying to match her bland expression. "All the same, I'll double up on the patrols in this area. And I suggest you go nowhere by yourself," Ryan told her.

"That is a wise precaution. I'll keep that in mind," she replied reasonably.

"Do you have a firearm?" Ryan asked.

"Yes," Azalea replied. "It is registered and completely legal. I have followed all of your state's rules and regulations. And yes, I know how to use it."

"Then I don't need to remind you not to do anything stupid, right?" Ryan asked with a sly smile.

"No, that will not be necessary," Azalea replied tersely.

"Good. You have my number. If you need anything or remember anything that might be of use, call - any time."

"Thank you, Sheriff. I will," she said.

"I'd better be going. Thank you for the coffee," Ryan said, standing.

Azalea walked him to the door and watched as he climbed into his official truck. "Why could I have not met a man like him before I met Phillipe?" she asked herself, feeling a familiar excitement between her legs.

From there, Ryan drove out to the Holder ranch. This was a job he certainly wasn't looking forward to. Ken Holder was a proud man, and Ryan knew he would not like the questions that had to be asked. He pulled into the long driveway and stopped in front of the large two-story house. JoAnne Holder, a stately woman in her sixties who had kept her figure even after nine children through hard work and healthy living, walked onto the porch as he stepped out of his truck.

"Sheriff Caldwell. What can we do for you?" she called as he approached. Ryan could tell she was barely holding her emotions in check.

"Mrs. Holder, I came by to speak with you and your family, if I may?" Ryan began, removing his hat as he stepped onto the porch. It was a gesture he knew would sit well with the Holders.

"Of course, Sheriff," she said. "We've been expecting you. Please come in." Ryan followed her inside and found himself face-to-face with Ken, a man whose square jaw and hard-angled face reminded him of a well-known actor who played in several western series.