The Devil's Copper by Jamie Crothall (ebook audio reader .TXT) 📗

I turned and put my arm around him.  “We’ll talk about it later.”

“Thank you for understanding.”

“Oh, I didn’t say I understood.”

I kissed him, and his reciprocation was feeble.

“I know it’s our anniversary, but…”

“Go to sleep,” I sighed.

I was tired too.  It didn't take long for either of us to fall asleep.

TWO

Have you ever had your bedroom door kicked in at 2:00 A.M. by masked men, armed with semi-automatics?  It totally sucks.  Not recommended.  Oh, I can joke now.  But I was a screaming mess at the time.  It did my image no favours, I can tell you.  One minute it was peaceful bliss, and the next, the door was off its hinges.  It hit the floor with an echoing crash, followed by deep, booming shouts.

“Nobody move!”

“Police!  Stay where you are!”

“Hands where we can see them!”

“What the hell?” Jack shouted.

He shielded his eyes from the bright light on the scope of one of the weapons.  In his confusion, he tried to shield me with his body, but he was quickly pulled off the bed and to the floor.  Three men loomed over him with their weapons trained on him. One additional man kept his weapon trained on me.

This was a dream.  It had to be.

“Jack Spry?” one of them shouted.

When he got no reply, he hit Jack with the butt of his rifle.

I screamed, but stifled it when the gun pointed at me got closer.

“Jack Spry?” the voice called again.

“Yes!” came his feeble reply.

He signaled to the others.  They shouldered their weapons so they could hoist him up.  Blood streamed from the side of his head.  He looked disoriented.  Possibly concussed from the severe blow.

“What the hell is going on?” I cried.

“Police business,” said the man with the gun trained on me.  “Do not interfere!”

They were all dressed in black, with bulletproof vests and side-arms.  It was only in retrospect that I realized their headgear did not match.  Some wore goggles, while others had sunglasses.  The three attending to Jack wore balaclavas, but the one who spoke to me had his mouth uncovered.  His only defining feature was a thick brown mustache.

“Get him out of here,” he said to the others.

“Where are you taking him?” I gasped.

“I said do not interfere,” he insisted, this time with a growling tone of finality.

I couldn’t do anything but watch.  They hauled Jack away like a cumbersome bag of trash.  From the bed, I could see out to the main door to our apartment, which was wide open.  There was a hole where the door handle had been.  How they managed to do that without waking us up, I had no idea.  The remaining man looked over his shoulder, verified the others were clear, then left me with a final message.

“It’s in your best interest to not contact the local authorities about this.  Do not put him in any more danger than he already is.”

With that, he left, leaving the front door wide open and our home in tatters.

Once he was gone, I weakly got up and stumbled to the front door.  But by time I got there, their vehicle had already driven away.  It was too much.  It was all too much.  My legs didn’t have the strength to hold me up.  My brain didn’t have the capacity balance.  I fell to the floor and cried.

It had to be a dream.

THREE

I didn’t sleep that night.  By the time I got any semblance of sanity back, I could only think about simple tasks. I picked the bedroom door back up.  I tried to get the front door to close and lock.  My hands were still shaking too much to do either with efficiency.  No one came to our apartment to see what the commotion was.  I guess the arresting officers managed to keep it all under the radar.  I wasn’t sure if I found that disappointing or a general relief.  I kept falling back on the one officer’s parting words: ‘don’t involve the local authorities.’  Was that a higher agency trying to avoid involving local police?  Is that even protocol?  The more I thought about it, the more unusual it seemed.  No one showed any identification.  No one read him his rights.  And the use of force seemed excessive; neither of us showed any sign of resistance.  I wanted to go to the police to inquire.  But what could lead to, if they weren’t connected to the police?  Then who the hell were they, and what did they want with Jack?

I took a shower, and tried to shake off my sense of unease before heading downtown.

***

The police station wasn’t what I expected.  Not like the movies, where a bustle of officers and colourful perps all wait to be processed.  It was open and quiet.  Surprising, following a Saturday night.  A counter limited further entry into the building, manned by a single officer, a young black woman with a tag that read ‘Simpson.’  She was in the process of writing something.  As I neared, and could see over the counter, I saw it was a crossword puzzle.  She looked up at me and smiled.  Then she realized I saw her crossword.  She pushed it aside.  I’m not sure if it was that or the rather daunted look on my face that changed her expression.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“I’m, uh…looking for my boyfriend.”

“Do you have reason to believe he’s here?”

I hesitated before nodding.

“What’s his name?” she asked, as she pulled a computer keyboard close.

“Jack.  Jack Spry.”

She typed and used the mouse to hit a few buttons but did not seem happy with the result.

“I don’t see anything.  Are you sure he would be here?”

“I think