Fine dust from the ceiling rained down on them as they struggled for the gun. Mike had managed to get his left hand under Chisholm's right wrist and pushed the barrel up before the older man's finger could squeeze the trigger. He had felt the bullet whiz past his ear before it embedded in the ceiling.
Mike's momentum had carried them both towards the cell door where Chisholm slammed backwards into the bars with a grunt, his right forearm, pinned between them, connecting solidly with the detective's still healing ribs. Mike gasped, grimacing in pain as black spots swam before his eyes. His obvious discomfort wasn't lost on the old man.
Four hands were wrapped around the .45, Mike trying to keep it pointing upwards, Chisholm fighting to bring it down low enough to get off another shot. They staggered a step or two deeper into the room again, Mike managing despite the pain to keep the barrel pointing at the ceiling, knowing his very life depended on it.
Suddenly Chisholm slipped his right hand off the grip of the gun and, with as much force as he could muster, drove his fist into Mike's left ribs. Even the tensor bandages couldn't protect him from the blow and Mike cried out in agony, his body convulsing involuntarily as he struggled to keep his hands on the gun. It was a battle he knew he was quickly losing.
The room spinning, his chest aflame, he slowly collapsed to the floor, powerless as the grip of the gun slipped from his fingers.
# # # # #
The police car slammed to a stop in front of the station and three doors flew open. Hogan tossed a quick glance at Chisholm's mud-covered red pickup truck as he sprinted the short distance to the door, Steve and Anderson on his heels.
As they charged into the station, Hogan glanced over his shoulder, pulling his revolver from its holster. "Are you packing?"
"Yeah," Steve confirmed as he reached behind himself, grabbing his .38 and holding it up for the chief to see.
"Good. Colin, you stay here!"
Anderson, who was behind Steve, slid to a stop near the counter.
Hogan looked at Dottie, who was standing in the middle of the bullpen, as they raced past her and she tossed the ring of keys at the chief, who caught them deftly as he and Steve approached the wooden cell room door. He glanced over his shoulder at his secretary again. "Any more shots?"
Dottie shook her head quickly. "I could hear a fight but that stopped too."
Hogan nodded, his right ear against the door. Steve, his .38, in both hands, pointed at the floor, was at his side, listening. Hogan glanced at him and they both nodded.
"Jake! Jake, it's Roger Hogan! Jake, can you hear me?!" He paused, but there was no response. "Jake, is anybody hurt?!" He looked at the young detective; there was still no response. He lowered his voice. "You stay here, I'll go in first. He won't shoot me."
Though he didn't like it, Steve nodded.
His gun in both hands, Hogan used his right shoulder to push the door open. "I'm coming in, Jake! It's just me!" He slid along the door then spun into the room. Steve stared at the gradually closing door, his heart pounding, terrified about what he would find on the other side.
# # # # #
In a crouch, his gun swinging back and forth in front of him, Hogan moved slowly closer to the bars of the nearest cell. His trained eyes snapped around the small enclosure, searching for the two men he knew were locked inside. He couldn't see anyone. Near the cot on the right had been pulled away from the wall, he could see a brown hat on the cell floor but no blood, hoping that meant that the shot Dottie had heard had gone wild.
"Jake!" he called out then paused to listen. He could hear a scuffling sound like a shoe on concrete and his eyes snapped in the direction of the sound. On the other side of the cot he could see the two men on the floor. His legs stretched out in front of him, Chisholm was leaning against the corner of the two cement walls, staring straight ahead; Mike was half-lying, half-sitting on Chisholm's left side, his head and upper torso against the older man's chest.
The detective looked semi-conscious, his eyes half-closed, his face wreathed in pain. Chisholm had wrapped his left arm around the cop's chest, holding him tightly in place, while he pressed the barrel of the .45 against his right temple.
"Don't come any closer or I'll put a bullet in his brain," Chisholm growled as Hogan moved to get into a better position.
The cop froze. "I won't," he said softly with an attempt at a smile. "What, ah, what are you doing, Jake?"
"This son-of-a-bitch killed my grandson," Chisholm spat out, tightening his left arm to emphasize his words. Mike gasped in pain, his body jerking, his face contorting even more, eyes squeezed tight.
"Easy, Jake, easy… easy," Hogan soothed. "Look, ah, I know you're mad, Jake, because Johnny's dead… and I understand that… but I want to talk to you, okay, Jake? Will you listen to me?… Please…?"
There was a tense pause. "I ain't interested in anything you got to say," Chisholm began almost softly and Hogan pounced.
"You're not interested in the truth, Jake?" He waited a beat, letting the words sink in. "That's not like you, you've always been a stickler for the truth. In all the years I've known you, Jake, you're spoken the truth, every time, whether we wanted to hear it or not. That's why people admire you as much as they do. Are you gonna give all that up now?"
Hogan paused again, and when the silence from the cell lengthened, he knew he had touched a nerve. He exhaled slowly through his open mouth, trying to slow his pounding heart, knowing the next few minutes could mean life or death for the San Francisco homicide lieutenant who's only crime was taking his daughter on a fishing trip.
# # # # #
Steve was leaning against the door, his right ear pressed to to the burnished wood, trying to hear what was going on on the other side. He could make out Hogan's muffled voice, and though he couldn't discern any words, he could tell by the calm and even tone that the police chief was trying to diffuse what he assumed was a very tense situation.
Dottie had drifted closer and Steve glanced up at her. She looked distraught, and he knew she was horrified about what she had inadvertently allowed to unfold. He almost felt sorry for her.
"Is Jake Chisholm Johnny Seddon's grandfather?" he asked in a whisper and she nodded.
He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply; he needed to know what was going on on the other side of the heavy wooden door.
# # # # #
Chisholm still hadn't responded to Hogan's challenge; the police chief took that to mean he was willing to listen. "So, this is the truth, Jake… and you have my word as a police officer and as your friend… this man did not kill your grandson."
There was another long pause. "Connie told me he did. Why would she lie to me?"
"Your daughter was mistaken, Jake, she didn't lie. We all thought he did it… but we were all wrong, Jake… even Connie." Hogan took a breath, letting his words settle. "Jake, I'm gonna let someone in here with me…" He stopped talking when he saw Chisholm react, trying to push himself further into the corner, his arm tightening around Mike's chest. The injured lieutenant gasped, reaching up feebly to try to pry the arm away from his body. Chisholm just held tighter and Hogan could see the lieutenant fighting for breath and consciousness.
"Easy, Jake, take it easy… let him go, let him go, just a little bit… just let him go a little bit so he can breathe, okay…" Hogan struggled to get through to the older man. "He's got broken ribs from the car accident, Jake, he's in a lot of pain…"
Though Chisholm's head was down and Hogan couldn't see his eyes, he could tell his words were sinking in as Chisholm loosened his hold across Mike's chest and cop slumped, moaning as he drew in breath after painful breath. Hogan dropped his head and inhaled deeply, grateful for the tiny victory.
"Jake, this man's name is Mike Stone and he's a detective from San Francisco. He was down here on vacation, a fishing trip with his daughter. Her name is Jeannie."
Though Chisholm wasn't moving or responding, Hogan could feel he was listening. "He has a partner, a partner who was very worried when Mike and his daughter didn't come home. He's here, the partner… and I'm gonna let him in so he can talk to you too, okay?"
When there was no word or movement from Chisholm, Hogan nodded. "Okay, Jake, I'm gonna let him in now." Still in a crouch, his legs aching from the painful position, Hogan began to slowly duck walk towards the door, keeping his eyes on Chisholm. When he got close enough, he reached up for the handle and pulled it open.
On the other side, Steve watched silently as the door slowly opened. He couldn't see anyone at first, then Hogan leaned back into his line of sight, looking at him out of the corner of his eye. "Put your gun away… follow my lead…" he whispered, holding the door open.
Steve quickly stuffed his .38 in the holster on the back of his belt and, crouching down, stepped through the door. Hogan let it go and, as it closed, both police officers moved closer to the bars, dropping to their knees, the police chief keeping his .38 loosely trained towards the back of the cell.
Following Hogan's stare, Steve's eyes fell on the tableau in the far corner and he soundlessly caught his breath. Chisholm had sat up a little straighter, tightening his grip and pushing the barrel of the gun against Mike's head even harder. Mike wasn't moving but Steve could tell from his face that he was in a lot of pain. Hogan glanced at him encouragingly.
"Jake? Jake, this is Steve. He's Mike's partner. He's here to take Mike and his daughter back home to San Francisco. And, ah, and we gotta help him do that, okay?"
There was a tense silence.
"Hello, Mr. Chisholm," Steve said softly, formally, with a slight nod.
"He killed my grandson," Chisholm barked angrily and Steve froze, shooting a worried glance at Hogan. But the police chief almost smiled and threw a quick, reassuring look in the younger cop's direction.
"I already told you, Jake, somebody else killed Johnny… not Mike."
"Who killed him then? If you know, then tell me. Who killed him?"
Hogan swallowed, stalling for a brief second. "Well, we're working on that, Jake, we don't rightly know yet, but we're getting close… but we know for sure it wasn't Mike here. We are absolutely sure of that. You gotta believe me."
"Then why is he in here? Why did you arrest him?"
"Like I told you before, Jake, we made a mistake… a horrible mistake. We never should've done that."
Chisholm seemed to sag, the barrel of the gun against Mike's head pulled away slightly. From across the length of the cell, he stared at Hogan as if trying to decide if he should believe him or not. The cops waited, both of them unnaturally still, barely breathing.
Suddenly Chisholm shifted, his arm tightening around Mike's chest and the gun barrel thrust against Mike's temple with enough force that his head rocked sharply. Both cops froze as Mike cried out, clawing ineffectually at the arm around his chest, and the old man roared, "He said the boy was a rapist! A goddam rapist! What do you have to say about that, Hogan?! Hunh?!
Even from across the cell, both Steve and Hogan could see Chisholm's finger tighten around the trigger.
