Chapter 1: Him


27b Maine Street
Sheena, Nevada
13 June, 1999
1837 hrs (6:37 pm)

Life was easy for a cop living in a city like Sheena, a place where things usually went well, where the gas prices were relatively low for Nevada, and where the temperatures were only unbearable toward the end of the summer.

Sheena was north of the Great Basin, situated in the heart of White Pine County. The city was a desert flower, all white concrete and healthy green foliage, owing its prosperity to oil drilling back in the 1800s and considerable donations from several million–dollar enterprises. She was a tropical oasis now, devoid of pollutant industry for the most part, boasting of relatively low taxes, and far enough from Vegas to remain relatively untouched by the lawless abandon of that city.

Justin Cantori was a cop, and he lived in the Sheena community – specifically in side B of a duplex halfway down Maine Street, five houses from where the road intersected Madison Avenue. The development was relatively new, decidedly suburban, and the streets were named after states. It was the sort of community always enamored in the happy movies: quiet, lined by white–barked trees from beginning to end, full of neighbors who know everyone and their mother's business and children who play soccer on the asphalt in the dry summer heat.

These same children were thrilled by the fact that a "real–life policeman" lived on their street (a fact that, for some reason, made their exceptionally law–abiding parents exceptionally nervous). Whole crowds of them would often go out of their way just to say hello to Justin – especially when he would walk down the street, heading for the local library or coffee house.

He didn't mind the attention. In fact, it made him feel like a part of the community he protected, instilling in his guts some semblance of belonging, something that had eluded him for the larger part of his life. He would grin like a fool, waving as the kids ran parallel with his squad car, following him down to the street corner.

Three blocks from City Hall, nested comfortably at the intersection of James' Highway and Route 50,was the Municipal building and police station. It was three stories and boasted both a helicopter pad on the roof and the largest administrative parking lot in Sheena City. At most, it was a ten minute drive from Justin Cantori's house – fifteen if he hit the four–minute traffic light at 25th and Roosevelt.

Justin had been with the force for two full years, and as of Friday the 13th of June, 1999, had only been sergeant of his detail for a month–and–a–half. He was a small man at only 5' 8" and 160 pounds, strong despite his size, and quick on his feet. He wore contacts as opposed to glasses, exercised routinely to remain lean, and kept his persistent beard in check. People often mistook him as Israeli, due to his larger–than–average nose and exceptionally curly hair, but he was actually of Italian descent – as if the surname didn't give it away.

Friday and Sunday evenings he didn't have night shift, although he honestly wouldn't have minded filling a full week. After all, he only had his sixteen–inch television and his dog to keep him company on nights off. To make matters worse, he didn't even have cable, and the eight channels he did have tended to be temperamental. But these circumstances certainly didn't mean he was unhappy with his life. Quite to the contrary: perhaps he wasn't the happiest man living in Sheena, but he was by far one of the most contented.

That Friday the 13th began not unlike any other Friday the 13th since Cantori wasn't superstitious, but what happened later that evening left a lot to be explained.

Morning routine was a nice way to break in the day, but the afternoon had been interesting – a break from the otherwise slow summer hours. Justin had caught some kid in a Mustang speeding in a twenty–mph zone. The Sheena cops had an unspoken policy where they usually only nabbed speeders when they were ten to fifteen miles per hour over the speed limit. They would usually let people get away with five on the sparsely travelled back roads, perhaps even ten miles over (depending on the cop's mood), but nineteen–year–old Jack Harding, who had run the light at the Waterfield Road/Honey Avenue intersection – where traffic was more than abundant – had been doing thirty-seven past: Justin had clocked him.

Casually, he'd sidled up behind, run the Mustang's plates through the database, and then put on his flashers after the next light –

And as any good cop would do, he'd given chase when the kid refused to pull over. He'd ended up following the speeder across the Sheena downtown, almost to the interstate. In the end, one of the other officers on Justin's squad had boxed in the violator, forcing him to stop or risk personal injury and damage to his vehicle. Naturally, they'd cuffed him for a night in holding, and Justin had hit Harding with three fat tickets: failure to obey a police officer, reckless driving, and failure to wear a seatbelt. Funny enough, the kid had nothing to hide in his car: no smack, no weapons, no booze. Just a record of speeding that was finally catching up to him.

At least he didn't try to foot it when we cornered him, Justin thought absently as he dug leftovers from the back of his refrigerator. Harding had points on his license already and, with the escapade earlier that afternoon, was facing imminent driving suspension. Still, you'd think the kid would be smart enough to just take the ticket and rough it out.

But it wasn't the first time, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Sometimes the whackjobs abandoned their hovels in Sin City and travelled north. But then again, there were plenty of resident nutcases in the Sheena district: after all, Nevada had been originally settled by Mormons.

Justin crossed the kitchen and plopped the Tupperware of macaroni unceremoniously into the microwave, relishing the blissful silence in the apartment. Listening to police chatter all day never failed to give him a headache. Alyx followed him, licking her chops eagerly. Justin wasn't an animal freak or anything like that, but he had always kind of been a dog–person, and Alyx had always been a people–Husky, so they got along well enough.

He bent to scratch behind her ears. "None for you," he said sternly, as though that would deter her from begging. It was hard to keep a straight face when she was wagging her tail like that. "You got your nice, dry, bland dog food to eat. Keeps your teeth healthy. You'll thank me later."

No she wouldn't. In fact, she'd never thanked him for a single damned thing he'd done for her. He was actually thinking about some counseling – something to help them work out their differences. As it was, they had their disagreements about running the house, considering that both man and animal felt that they owned the place. What they really needed was a fucking Constitution, complete with a Bill of Rights, but Justin thought they'd done a decent job in divvying up the responsibilities without one: he brought home the beef and kept the plumbing unclogged, so Alyx did all the routine cleaning, picked the kids up from the daycare, handled the shopping, and bit intruders.

"You need a woman," Justin said aloud, matter–of–factly and not for the first time.

The microwave chimed, so he removed the now–steaming bowl and rummaged for a fork in the nearly empty silverware drawer. He hovered uncertainly for a moment, torn between the newspaper on the countertop and the allure of the Phillies–Rockies game, which had started ten minutes prior, and then decided to go with his gut.

"Play ball," he mumbled to himself, and made his way to the living room. He dropped into his chair, and predictably, Alyx flopped down near his feet, ready to catch any noodles he might drop.

Justin had spent most of his childhood in South Jersey, just across the Walt Whitman from Philadelphia. Over the course of his adult life, he'd relocated four times – once for the academy, twice for detail transfers, once for family–related reasons. How he had ended up a patrol cop in Sheena, Nevada was still a mystery to him. However, regardless of cultural oppression, he remained unerringly true to his boyhood team, the Fightin' Phils who had won the pennant for him back in 1980.

They were up by two when he flipped on the TV and settled back to eat his pitiful supper, which meant the Colorado crowd in attendance was already subdued. Friends and family had never described Justin as a loud–spoken individual, but apparently they'd never observed him watching sports. Barely twenty-five minutes or so into the game, he had already abandoned his half–eaten bowl of macaroni and was waving his arms angrily at the television.

"That was clearly foul, Terry – don't fight it, man! You coulda – now you're gonna –"

He stopped suddenly in mid–sentence, listening, but not to the TV: the police radio had crackled to life in the next room. Reluctantly, he got to his feet and jogged into the kitchen, praying that Francona didn't get ejected over nothing.

Leaning heavily against the counter, he put the radio to his lips. "Yeah, go ahead."

A pause. "Cantori?"

Leftover annoyance from the day bled into his voice, although he expended no real effort to contain it. "That would be me."

"This is Hernandez."

Justin quickly dropped his sarcasm and mechanically straightened with respect. Sherry Hernandez was the chief of Sheena police and, not to mention, the most beautiful woman on the force. She directed the majority of all police activity in the Sheena districts and answered directly to the Commissioner, the Mayor, and – when the occasion demanded – the Governor. In other words, she was well out of his reach, but Justin had always been prone to want what he couldn't have.

He cleared his throat. "Yes, Ma'am?"

She was probably going to call him in for night duty. It was inconvenient since Friday was his only night off, but at least it didn't mean he would suffer from boredom all evening. The overtime pay was decidedly a plus, but Justin immediately found himself irritably wondering where the hell Cort was. Friday was Bobby's night to cover the Cinderton district – the shift he and Cantori rotated weekly. There was a spot between 30th and 31st where the speed limit dropped abruptly from 35 to 15, and that was where the Sheena cops liked to wait.

Hernandez' voice crackled through before he could say anything else. "Sergeant, we need you – now. You know that abandoned house that we nabbed that thief in last week?"

Something stirred in his mind, a memory both grim and glamorous. "How could I forget?" he muttered, low enough that Hernandez couldn't hear him.

There had been a series of thefts across Sheena, mostly botched attempts, but the thief had managed to hit several big houses before Sheena police had tracked him back to his hideout: the abandoned Granford house in Newson Township, part of the Sheena district, just outside Ely. Nothing but grit–blasted fields surrounded the old house on all sides, although scraggly trees and other vegetation had grown unkempt around the edifice over the years. From his vantage point, the thief had seen the cops coming and had rigged several rather ingenious traps that had seriously injured three officers.

Hernandez continued without pause, and the static did nothing to alleviate the aggravation in her voice. "We have some psycho in there with a hostage. Every time we attempt an entrance, he tells us to get out – that there's something 'deadly' in there. Nothing specific, but it's safe to assume that he's got some type of explosive."

While she spoke, Justin hurried down the hall to the bedroom and began digging his uniform out of his closet as he listened. "Bomb squad can't do anything?"

"We can't exactly get to the perp – not without risking the hostage's life. We're not sure if it's homemade or something more deadly, but we need all hands on deck."

"Do we have motive?" he asked. "Any idea who he is?"

"What are you, my detective now? Just get your ass down here, Cantori."

"I'll be there as fast as I can," he said into the handheld. "Just let me get some pants on."

Hernandez laughed once – albeit without humor – and abandoned the transmission to a garbled burst of static.

With no time to waste, Justin tore off his button–up and jeans, pulling on his uniform over boxers and a t-shirt. He wrenched the top drawer of his bureau open and took out his belt with the gun holstered on it. After checking to see that the handgun was loaded and the safety was on, he replaced it in the holster and cinched the belt around his waist.

Minutes later, he was running out of the house, bidding Alyx farewell and apologizing for not being able to spend the evening with her. She'd give him hell for it later – probably lots of sloppy, guilt–inducing kisses – but that was punishment he'd simply have to endure. He somehow remembered to lock the front door behind him, and then jumped into his squad car. Burning rubber on the pavement, he left Maine Street and took Madison southwest – in order to hook up with 50, which would take him directly to Newson.

To the west, the sunset was brilliant.