Ricochet Joe

8 THE CHIEF

Chief Harold Montclair appeared to be too hard a man to have fathered a daughter as lovely as Portia. In fact, if you were to encounter him out of uniform at night, you’d cross the street to avoid him. Scabs crusted his knuckles, as though he had been punching a brick wall for sport. For his stone-gray stare to have been any harder, his eyes would have had to fossilize.

He took Joe into his home office, to a locked gun safe. Before selecting a firearm, he said, “So you donate time to Volunteers for a Better Future.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why do you volunteer, Joseph?”

“I don’t know. I guess I like to feel good about myself.”

The chief’s eyes were as direct as two drill bits. “Many of our worst criminals have very high self-esteem. Do you have very high self-esteem, Joseph?”

“Not as high as I think you mean.”

“Daddy,” Portia said, “this isn’t necessary. Seeker chose him. Seeker knows his character.”

The chief grunted noncommittally and said to Joe, “So you asked my daughter to the malt shop.”

“We sort of went for a walk and ended up there.”

“So you have an interest in my daughter.”

“Daddy.”

“Yes, sir. She’s like the most interesting person I’ve ever met.”

“That’s what drew you to her—how interesting she was?”

“Well, I also noticed how pretty she was.”

“You really noticed that, did you?”

Portia growled, and Seeker barked.

The chief said, “Okay, okay. I’m the father here, let’s not forget.” He unlocked the gun safe and opened the door and pondered the selection of weapons.

“I’ve never fired a gun,” Joe said.

“Doesn’t matter,” the chief said. “When Seeker gave you the tracking talent, she gave you expertise with guns, too.”

This was something Joe had been wondering about. “When exactly did Seeker give me all this?”

“One of the times she came in your house at night while you were sleeping.”

“One of the times? How did she get in even once?”

Touching one gun and then another with fondness, the chief said, “Whether she came from a million years in the future, from another universe, or wherever the hell, it should be obvious she can go anywhere she damn well pleases.” He took a pistol from the gun safe. “This here is a Heckler and Koch .45ACP with a ten-round magazine. We’ll load it with hollow points, screw a sound suppressor on it.”

“A silencer?” Joe frowned. “Is that legal?”

“In some states, it’s entirely legal. Besides, I’m a cop, and you’re a…” He turned to his daughter. “Pumpkin, what do you call it—what he is now?”

“A paladin.”

“For what’s got to be done,” the chief declared, “it’s legal enough. I’ve got a special shoulder rig that holds it with the sound suppressor attached and breaks away when you draw.”

When the pistol was loaded, Chief Montclair gave Joe minimal instructions in its operation. “Thanks to Seeker, you’ll feel like a lifelong shooter once you draw it.”

Evidently, on her nightly visits, Seeker hadn’t granted Joe a familiarity with shoulder holsters, because he tangled himself in the rig as if it were as complex as a straitjacket.

“Damn it all, son, let me do that for you.”

The chief had Joe rigged neatly in half a minute.

“I need a sport coat to hide it. I’ll go home and get one.”

“Pumpkin, go to the spare closet and get Joe a sport coat from when I was a bit less beefy.”

“It’ll probably still be too big,” Joe said.

“Won’t know till we try, son.”

While they waited for Portia to return, Joe said, “Seems like you would be better for this job than me.”

The chief gave him a look that said, Are you as smart as my daughter keeps saying you are?

“Oh,” Joe said. “Yeah, I guess Parasite would suspect the jig was up if an armed cop came to the door.”

“It’s important the thing suspects nothing. Otherwise, you’ll never get a chance. But there is another reason Seeker chose you.”

“What’s that?”

Chief Montclair glanced at the open door to be sure that Portia hadn’t returned. He lowered his voice and with evident chagrin said, “Parasite can detect the difference between an innocent heart and one… well, that’s maybe not so innocent. It won’t fear you and your innocent heart, but it would smell me coming a mile away, sad to say.”

This was a revelation that Joe could have done without, for if this was his future father-in-law, he would be forever wondering to what degree the chief’s heart was not innocent.

Portia returned with the coat, which was too big, though not as big as Joe expected.

“Helps hide the gun,” Portia said as she adjusted the lapels. “Just seems like maybe you’re wearing your father’s coat. And the last thing you look like is an assassin.”

“She’s right about that,” the chief said. “Last thing you look like is an assassin.”

“When do I start?” Joe asked.

To his daughter, the chief said, “Now?”

“Now,” she agreed.

Another thought occurred to Joe. “Where do I start?”

“You’re the tracker, Joey. Start where intuition tells you. But Parasite has a special vibe. You won’t mistake it for the vibe of a purse snatcher.”

Yet another thought occurred to him. “Seeker and all of you have been hunting it the last four years. Does it always escape by changing bodies? Have there been other paladins?”

“Seven,” the chief said.

“And they all failed?”

“Five of them were not innocent enough in their hearts,” Portia said. “They could track it but never get close enough without it being able to know they were coming.”

In the doorway, the dog wagged its tail and smiled at Joe as if to say, But you’re the one!

“Five failed, huh? What about the other two?”

“They’re dead,” the chief said.