Dancing at the Shoulder

of the Bull

By Laramee Douglas

curtains, were four men.

He rose out of the crouch. Staying low, he moved around the tree to get a better view of the fence line along the house and sidestepped the pile of beer bottles and cans in his path. They'd worked too long and hard on this bust to have a pile of garbage blow it for them. John caught a glimpse of another officer cloaked in shadow beneath a side window just as the tiny speaker in his right ear crackled into life. "Let's move."

John's heart raced as he leapt up and ran toward the house. Harris' foot slammed into the door at the lock. Wood splintered. John entered behind his partner. Fellow officers fell through the door behind him and in through the windows. A tall, skinny dude with a braid down his back ran from the room clutching a small package. Harris flew after him. John hoped he'd reach the guy before the dope got flushed. A man in a black T-shirt came around the doorway from the kitchen, a pistol in his hand. The gun exploded and Bruce sank to the floor. Damn. Bruce shouldn't have gone down. He was wearing a vest. They were all wearing Kevlar vest. The son-of-a-bitch must be firing cop-killers. Faintly aware of the bedlam of running feet, furniture being overturned and shouting, John aimed at the shooter's chest. Just as he squeezed the trigger, he was shoved from behind.

In a fraction of a second, that fraction of a second after the trigger was pulled, that fraction of a second before the trigger had a chance to move back to its cradle, in that fraction of a second, John wanted, wanted more than he had ever wanted anything in his life, to retrieve the bullet flying through space between his gun and the doorway. In that instant, a small child darted from an unseen place in the kitchen and toward the man in the black T-shirt.

Copyright © 2006 by Laramee Douglas

PROLOGUE

A fingernail moon peeked between the branches of the scraggly live oak under which John Suarez crouched...waiting. The strong scent of oleander from a nearby hedge masked the oil refinery air that permeated this section of the city. As he watched, a barely discernible shadow moved slowly and carefully, low to the ground. Harris. Beyond Harris, another shape crept toward the house. The stocky figure belonged to Bruce. Knowing everyone's location was crucial.

Filled with anticipation, but conscious of everything around him, John noticed the dew beginning to form on the ground, cars passing on the interstate a block to his right, the chill of the cold front that had blown in that afternoon, televisions from nearby homes broadcasting in discordant tones and the location of every other officer on the team.

Most of Houston was so well lit that a night operation like this might well have been done in broad daylight. But fortunately, or rather, with a little help from the electric company, the street lights along this section of Taos had gone out three nights ago, an hour or so before a surveillance team moved in next door.

John turned his attention back to the house. Even in the dark, he was able to discern the grime-stained front door. The peeling paint of the outer walls. The dead vines that clawed their way up torn and rusted screens. Inside, behind the dirty windows with ripped

The scuffles and shouts of the bust were now a screaming silence in John's brain. He watched the action around him move in slow motion.

The perpetrator looked down at the dark stain that was beginning to spread at his left side then glanced back as if searching for the bullet that had torn through his back. He screamed, "No!" as the child fell forward, her head bouncing against the filthy kitchen linoleum, then lay frightfully still. The perp turned back to John and aimed.

John's finger froze on the trigger. He knew he should fire again, but he couldn't. He stared at the child as new stains appeared on the man's chest and abdomen, unaware of his fellow officers firing around him. He stared at the child, unaware that the perp had crumbled to the floor. He stared at the child as Sandra and Muñoz ran to check the perp for signs of life.

Someone grabbed his arm.

"John. John." He finally heard Harris trying to get through to him. John shook out of his paralysis, pulled away from him , and ran past Sandra, Muñoz, and the perp, then dropped on his knees beside the child.

My God, she can't be more than four, he thought brushing the long, black hair from her face. A ragged entry wound tore through the little girl's forehead.

"Oh. Shit," someone said.

"She's dead. She's dead." John lifted the child into his arms and began rocking back and forth. "I've killed her."

This can't be happening. This can't be happening. This can't be...

located the receiver and she lifted it to her ear. Eyes still closed, she asked, "Hello?" but was answered with silence. "Hello?" she repeated, opening one eye. Again silence. Then a "click" followed by the dial tone. Replacing the phone, she squinted through the blur of sleep to see the digital clock. 3:42. I hate Saturday nights, she thought. Saturday night was when drunks tried to phone old lovers and ended up misdialing the phone.

Ranita laid back on her pillow and reached across the king-size bed for Wade. Empty. He had said the meeting might last late and if it did, he would stay over in Corpus Christi instead of driving the two hours to their home in Katerina, a city southeast of San Antonio. She hoped that was the truth. Ranita took a deep breath and tried to reclaim the oblivion of sleep. Relax, relax, relax, she silently chanted, using the method her brother-in-law Leo had taught her when she had complained to him about not being able to sleep. It worked with the troubled students Leo counseled, and his promise that it would work for her was kept. The deep breathing and chanting were successfully keeping the unwanted thoughts from her mind and she could feel herself drifting into sleep when the phone jarred her awake again.

"Hello." Again no one answered, but she could hear someone breathing. "Who is this?" she demanded. Breathing ... breathing. Then the click of disconnection.

"Creep," she said. Ranita was now wide awake and uneasy. She and the girls were alone in the house. No amount of self-hypnosis would get her back to sleep, so she switched on the light then picked up the TV remote.

The phone rang again. Startled, she dropped the remote and grabbed the receiver before the second ring. "Who is this?" she demanded. Silence. "Who is this? What do you want?"

CHAPTER 1

April 26th, the following year

The shrill ring woke Ranita Hunter and she fumbled for the phone. Her hand finally

Again, Ranita heard only silence, then she thought she heard someone chuckle before the disconnecting "click."

She shivered and looked across the empty bed. Turning on the television, Ranita set the volume at a level so it would not wake her daughters, Angelique and Keighly, then flipped through channels until she found an old movie. Since Wade wasn't there, Charles Bronson would have to protect her from the phone creep.

Getting out of bed, she slid into her robe tying the belt tightly about her waist. The robe gave her a feeling of security, as if it were made of chain mail rather than satin. She stared at the phone for a few moments. When it didn't ring, she decided it was probably a kid who'd tired of his game. She padded across the thick carpet and opened the closet door feeling slightly less nervous. Flipping the light on, she stepped inside. In this state, she couldn't sleep, so she may as well be productive. She had been meaning to go through her clothes and working would keep her mind off the phone calls and Wade.

Ranita began to pull clothes she hadn't worn for a while from the hangers. The aquamarine linen skirt wasn't as attractive as when she'd first purchased it. Ranita took it off the hanger, folded it and placed it on the floor. She pulled out the beige silk blouse with the lace inlay she'd recently worn to Angelique's school play. The blouse was a little worn, but it was one of her favorites and had some life left in it. She replaced the hanger and pulled out the gray crepe de chine skirt. She'd never liked the shade and had worn the skirt maybe three times. Folding the skirt, she placed it atop the aquamarine. The stack of clothes grew as she went through her skirts, blouses, slacks, and dresses.

Looking through her accessories, Ranita

pulled off the woven-cloth vest Wade had bought when he said he'd gone to Santa Fe. The week after he surprised her with it, she took the girls shopping in San Antonio where Ranita was startled to see a similar vest hanging in La Vaca Risa's store window.

They had entered the small shop and were met by the proprietress whose hands were as active as a covey of flushed quail. "You're wearing the vest," she said. "Doesn't Juanita Saldaña do beautiful work? I'm so lucky to have found a local artist who creates such marvelous pieces."

It must be a different artist," Ranita said. "My husband bought this in Santa Fe."

"Oh no, dear. I know Juanita's work and this is definitely a Saldaña. Juanita sells to me exclusively. I remember selling this just last week. Or was it the week before? Anyway, is your husband tall, blonde, green eyes?"

"Yes." Ranita could not disguise her surprise.

"I thought so," the woman said. "You're Mrs.?"

"Hunter. Ranita Hunter. But he told me he bought it in Santa Fe."

"You know men. He probably meant to buy you a gift while he was there and forgot, so he stopped by here so as not to go home empty-handed. What does it matter? You've got a beautiful vest. May I show you something else while you are here?" She turned slightly and waved toward a glass case full of jewelry. "Some turquoise rings perhaps?"

Ranita graciously declined and hustled the girls from the store.

But it did matter. Every lie she caught Wade in mattered. The connection for his flight from Santa Fe was through Houston, not San Antonio. Had he gone to Santa Fe or had he been in San Antonio? She hadn't bothered to ask, but she never wore the vest again.

Dropping it on the floor, Ranita opened and

walked through the door on the opposite end of the closet which lead into the attic. She returned with a large storage box. Her father's housekeeper, Teresa, would be able to find homes for most of the items and would take the other clothes to her church for the next fund-raising bazaar.

That chore finished, Ranita pulled a large gift box stuffed with photographs from the top shelf of the closet. She turned off the TV and quietly stepped into the hall.

The street lamp shone through the large two story window over the front door allowing ample light to illuminate the walls decorated with a multitude of portraits of her two daughters. Ranita made her way to Keighly's bedroom and eased open the door. Her youngest was scrunched in a compact bundle, her legs pulled up to her chest, fanny straight up in the air and face pressed into the pillow. Ranita set the box on the carpet and entered the room. She straightened Keighly's nightgown and covered her with the sheet and comforter kicked off during the night. After leaving her room, Ranita looked in on Angelique from the doorway. Luckily, the calls didn't wake the light sleeper.

Ranita carried the box downstairs and placed it on the kitchen table. She walked to the bar that separated the kitchen from the breakfast area and started to open a cabinet door when the telephone caught her eye. She walked around the bar and checked the Caller ID. 1-361-555-3452 PAY PHONE. She started to dial the phone number then hesitated. What am I going to say if someone answers? she thought, her finger poised over the keypad. Oh, for pity's sake. I'll just hang up. It will serve them right. After she dialed, the phone rang once, twice, ...eight times. Ranita hung up. It was just as she thought. Some drunk dialed the wrong number, then probably stumbled home to pass out. She pressed the delete button on

the Caller ID. The next item that appeared on the display read "OUT OF AREA." That's weird. It should be the same number as the one I just called. The time displayed in the top corner read "3:45". She shook her head then deleted the number. Another number appeared. 1-361-555-9777. The final call was received at three forty-seven. Three calls from three different numbers Ranita dialed the last number. She heard a click then a recorded message. "You've reached J.C. Penney at North Park Mall. Our store hours are ten to nine, Monday through Saturday and...." Ranita hung up. The phone lines must have gone kaflunky. Maybe it wasn't a drunk after all. Maybe the phone system went haywire. Ranita slid off the bar stool feeling less concerned. A few months back she'd picked up the phone to make a call and eavesdropped on a conversation in progress... and she wasn't on a party line. The lines had probably gotten crossed again.

Ranita dismissed the calls with a shake of the head, returned to her task, and began rummaging in a bottom cabinet. She found five picture albums still wrapped in cellophane, tore the wrapping from each album and spread them on the table, then began sorting through the pictures.

Most of them were still in the film lab packages which made it easy to categorize the different events. After filling two of the albums with the packaged photos, she started on the loose snapshots. Ranita felt herself relax as she looked at one of Keighly and Monster asleep on the couch, the big orange cat's nose tucked under her daughter's chin. Another picture showed her handsome dad standing beside one of his prize Beefmaster bulls.

The next was a snapshot of Wade, on their boat, his arms around Angelique and Keighly as they proudly held up the fish they'd caught. He is a good father, she thought. His one good

quality. Ranita laid that picture aside then reached for the next. Her hand froze inches from the photo of her husband standing innocently beside Noreen at the Fourth of July picnic. Ranita picked up the picture and ripped it into tiny shreds. At least that affair was over.

ninety degrees."

"Thanks. See you later." Carrie grabbed a handful of tees along with a score card and waved good-bye.

After warming up by hooking the driver behind her back and under her elbows and twisting at the waist until her muscles loosened, she took several practice swings to loosen up her arms and shoulders. Carrie looked across the fairway at the flag in the distance. She took two more practice swings then teed up the ball. She stepped behind the ball to locate her target then positioned herself to the left of the ball. Reaching down with her driver, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other until it felt right. She looked up and to her left, then down at the ball before lifting the club in a smooth arc before slamming the Big Bertha back toward the tee. A delicious thunk sounded as the club head made contact with the ball. It flew low and long.

Carrie was having a good round. She had parred the first hole, birdied the next, and parred the third. Now she stood on the fourth tee box watching her ball fly above the fairway. It was a little high. Going up and straight but then shying from its path, like a wayward pup who had found something more interesting to sniff at than the green.

"Darn."

Now the Wilson Ultra was buried in knee length brambles in a copse of mesquite and live oak. She dropped the club into the bag, jumped into the cart and rumbled down the cart path, veering left just before reaching the "Cart Path Only" sign. Arriving where she believed the ball had entered, she exhaled a sigh of disgust and stepped from the cart. Carrie searched the bag for the two iron and yanked it up and out. Using the club as a machete, she made her way through the dew-laden overgrowth, scanning for the ball as

CHAPTER 2

In another part of the subdivision, Carrie Bolton had risen before the sun, showered, and dressed in a lime and white shorts outfit with matching sun visor. Although it was still April, the South Texas summer had already put in its appearance, with the day's high projected to be in the low eighties. With golf bag loaded onto the back of her Club Car, she backed out of the garage. The beep, beep, beep of the reverse alarm notified an empty street of her departure.

She rolled through the neighborhood and pulled to a stop in front of the pro shop. As she entered, Tom Waters, who was pouring a cup of coffee, waved at her from the rear of the shop. A few other early risers were at a table watching the Weather Channel.

"You playing with the ladies' group this morning, Carrie?" Tom asked. "I didn't think they were teeing off 'til nine."

"They aren't. I'm going to squeeze in nine holes before church. I'll probably play again this afternoon, but I want to make the eleven o'clock service. My granddaughter has a solo in the choir today. Is the pro around? I want to see if it's all right to tee off on number one."

"I think he's out in the cart barn. You're beating everyone else by about an hour. I'm sure it'll be all right. I'll tell him for you."

"Do you know if it's 'cart-path only'?"

"No. We had a lot of wind last night, but not much rain. But you may want to keep it to

well as keeping a lookout for snakes. A bit of white was barely visible in a tangle of grass. She bent to retrieve it. As her hand touched the ball, a wave of goose bumps covered her flesh. Sticking out from beneath a fallen tree limb was a man's pale, lifeless hand.

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