AIDEN AFFLACK HUMMED to himself as he lifted the brass
doorknocker to summon St. Cloud Police Chief Weldon
Michaels to the front door of his Carrington Place
residence. Rapping twice, he stepped back.
What was that tune running through his head? It had been
with him since he'd risen this evening.
Audioslave? Nope.
Queens of the Stone Age? Un–uh.
Collective Soul? Yeah, yeah, that was it. Definitely. He
cricked his neck one way, then the other and felt the
satisfying crack. Ooh, I'm feeling better now.
The curtain in the bay window twitched, but Aiden
feigned obliviousness. From inside, he clearly heard
Michaels jam a clip into an automatic weapon. Aiden rolled
his eyes. Nobody trusted anyone anymore.
"Who are you and what do you want?"
The voice came through the door. A very cautious man
indeed.
"I'm a friend of your wife's," Aiden called. "Well, more
a friend of a friend, actually, but I have a personal
message for you, from her."
"Nice try. Now move on, before I call the cops."
Aiden thought about knocking the door in. It was solid
oak with a good deadbolt on it, but it could have been made
from cardboard and paperclips for all the challenge it
would present. On the other hand, there was no reason to
get messy.
He cleared his throat, did his best to summon a puzzled
tone. "Well, hell, I thought you were the cops. Do I have
the wrong address? I'm looking for Chief Weldon Michaels.
Got a message for him from his wife Lucy. Pretty
woman, 'bout an inch over five feet, brown hair and eyes?
Oh, and a real cute little daughter. What's her name?
Devon? Any of this sounding familiar?"
Silence for a few heartbeats. "What kind of message?"
"She wants to come home, but before she can see her way
clear to doing that, we need to have ourselves a talk."
Another pause, then the sound of the deadbolt
retracting. The door cracked open, and Weldon Michaels
peered out past a security chain.
God save me from fools. Growling, Aiden pushed the door
open. The hardware anchoring the security chain tore free
from the wall. Before Michaels could cry out, Aiden stepped
inside and closed the door behind him. In the next
heartbeat, he seized Michaels' right wrist and squeezed
until the other man screamed and dropped the pistol he
held. It hit the hardwood floor with a clatter but didn't
discharge.
"A gun?" Aiden released the other man's hand. "Now I ask
you, what kind of a greeting is that?"
Michaels — clearly a slow learner — reached
for a second weapon jammed into the waistband at the small
of his back. Before he could get to it, Aiden had Michaels
face down on the floor with his right hand way closer to
his right shoulder blade than God ever intended it to go.
"Jesus, my arm. You're breaking it!"
"Not even close. You develop a feel for these things,"
he said conversationally. "It's sort of like braking when
you're driving on ice. You gotta find the threshold."
"No, my shoulder! It's gonna pop! I swear to God!"
Aiden reefed Michaels arm a half inch higher, eliciting
a scream, followed by a stream of curses.
"See? Still plenty of play. It's a feel thing. Now are
you gonna behave yourself if I let you up?"
"Christ, yes! I'll do whatever you say."
"Atta boy." Aiden helped the other man to his
feet. "Now, let's go plug the code into the alarm, shall
we? And don't fuck with me. If the alarm company or the
cops call in a minute to ask if everything's okay, things
will be very much not okay for you. Understood?"
"Understood."
Aiden "helped" Michaels to the alarm panel, where he
keyed in a five–digit number. The winking red light
went out.
"Good man. Now we're going to need your handcuffs. I
know they can't be far away, since you laid hands on that
pistol fast enough. So be a darling and let's go fetch
them."
Michaels swore again.
"I know, I know. It's gotta sting, getting cuffed with
your own bracelets, but look at it this way: they'll be a
helluva lot more comfortable than the alternative if you
force me to improvise."
Michaels sagged. "In that drawer."
A minute later, Chief Weldon Michaels sat cuffed in one
of his own kitchen chairs, a sturdy–looking oak
proposition. Michaels somehow managed to look both scared
and pissed at the same time.
Aiden took a seat at the table, placing both guns
— one retrieved from beneath the telephone table in
the entryway and the other from the small of Michaels' back
— on the gleaming wood surface. "Okay, Weldon —
may I call you Weldon? — we need to talk."
Michaels glared back. "You're wasting your time. I don't
keep anything of value of here, at least nothing portable
enough to carry off. And damn you, you've already scored
both my guns. I suggest you just let yourself out and get
while the getting's good."
"You think I was bullshitting earlier, don't you? You
think I was feeding you a line about your wife to get
inside?" Aiden leaned back in his chair and kicked his feet
up to rest on the table. "That's rich."
Fear flashed in the other man's eyes, which he quickly
attempted to hide with bravado. "Look, mister, if you have
a message for me, let's get on with it."
"Afflack."
"What's that?"
"If you're gonna call me mister, you might as well make
it Mr. Afflack. Or Aiden, if you prefer."
Another flash of fear. Aiden could almost hear the
wheels turning in Michaels' head. He's shown me his face,
given me his name. There can only be one reason for that...
"Not to worry, Weldy. I think I'll call you Weldy."