One

Dying is overrated. Murder, on the other hand, is not. Trust me, after fifteen years as a detective, I know a lot about both. Like death and murder are always complicated, but not always related. You can have death without murder, but not the other way around. That’s what I used to think anyway. I changed my mind after an episode of my recurring nightmare. I’d been having it for years and it always turned out the same. While chasing a bad guy in the dark, he turned and shot me. I was about to die when something always pulled me from the nightmare. This time, it was Hercule’s hot breath. My four-year-old black Lab was standing beside my bed alternating between low growls and a tongue-lashing. Both demanded my attention. When my eyes first opened, he lapped at my face and nudged me with his big, wet nose. I forced my eyes open wider and at the same time realized that Angel was not snuggled beside me in bed. She was standing across the room and listening at our bedroom door. “Angel, did you hear something again?” She always heard things late at night and always felt compelled to share them with me. “Are you sure?” “Yes, Tuck. Herc can hear it, too. Wake up, will you? What kind of detective are you?” “The asleep-kind.” “Just get up. Please?” Hercule froze, nose down, staring at me as we both heard creaking floorboards in the downstairs hall. I rolled sideways and sat on the side of the bed. Hercule crept away and crouched near the door. For the third time, something interrupted Angel’s sleep. The first two times were just our old house’s creaks and groans, and both failed to wake Hercule out of a stone-cold sleep. Now, after summoning me, he was poised for homeland defense. I got to my feet and gathered my clothes littered in a strategic path across the room. I nearly toppled over slipping on my jeans and a black tee shirt and did manage to trip over my running shoes. Angel motioned for Herc to return to the bed. To me she whispered, “Hurry up.” “Look, if I’m going to get killed tonight, I don’t want to be naked.” I grabbed my 40-caliber Glock from the nightstand and checked the chamber. Then, I retrieved a .38 revolver from our walk-in closet and handed it to Angel. “Just in case.” “Okay. Be careful.” “Keep Herc close, babe. If it’s your imagination, stay awake and lose those pjs. If it’s trouble, give me fifteen minutes—then lose them.” Even in the dark, I could see her eyes roll. “Just be careful.” At the door, I listened but heard nothing. I winked at Angel and Hercule on the bed and whispered, “I love you—you too, Angel.” Hercule wagged his tail. In the hallway, I waited for my eyes to adjust a little more to the darkness. I shifted them to use my peripheral vision, looking for any telltale movement. Still nothing. From the top of the stairs, I could just make out the foyer below and did not see or hear anything. There were no wispy shadows, no running feet, and no creaking floorboards. Yawning, I eased down the stairs with my Glock out in front of me. At the bottom landing, I stopped. Darkness and the grandfather clock greeted me—it chimed two. The downstairs was quiet and I checked the front door. It was still locked and there were no signs of splintered wood, broken glass, or other forced entry. The only sound I heard was my own breathing. The only curious sighting was the half-dressed, frumpy guy in the hall mirror who looked tired and irritated. Maybe Angel would be losing those pjs sooner rather than later. I started with the kitchen and worked my way around the first floor, searching room by room—all five of them—ending in my den. Nothing. The most dangerous thing I found was Hercule’s squeaky frog that scared the crap out of me when I stepped on it. I felt foolish and decided to head back to bed. It hit me when I reached to turn off my desk lamp. The light shouldn’t have been on. I looked around. My briefcase wasn’t in its ritual place on my credenza. It was on my chair and the contents strewn over my desk. Everything was dumped out—my gold detective’s badge and I.D., several files, a notepad, tape recorder, and my .380 backup piece. No, the Walther wasn’t there—the holster was empty. “Angel …” I bolted to the stairs and looked up. Floorboards groaned above me. A door opened in the darkness beyond the landing. Movement—a shadow. Somewhere above, Angel called, “Tuck.” There was a flash at the top of the stairs … a shot. I lunged for the third stair. A figure stepped out of the darkness twelve feet above me. Another flash. “Angel!” *** Excerpt from DYING TO KNOW by Tj O’Connor. Copyright 2014/2024 by Tj O’Connor. Reproduced with permission from Tj O’Connor. All rights reserved.