Sunken Graves Alan Lee (reading e books .txt) 📖

breath and wiped his forehead. “My pension.”

“Yes. And there’s my family to think about too.”

“You know what I should have done? I should have drowned that kid when he was a teenager. Save us a lifetime of worry.”

“Do you think you could have?” Francis’ words were carefully chosen.

“Maybe.”

“Do you think you could now?”

Gibbs didn’t answer, because he was remembering Peter as a teenager. Lumpy and awkward, already perverted. “I tried, you know. Raising you boys. I tried.”

“I do know that, Chief.”

“You think I was rough on you—”

Francis finished the quote from memory. “It was nothing compared to your father.”

“He was a—”

“Your father was an alcoholic and abusive veteran, a Japanese prisoner of war for six months at Aomori, and he took out his hatred of the Japs on you. I know, Chief.”

Despite the anger, Gibbs gave a lopsided smile. “I guess I told you this enough, huh.”

“In lieu of a trained psychotherapist.”

“I didn’t have to take you in. I saw two starving little boys, I did my best.”

Francis wondered at the recent increase in Gibbs’ nostalgia. “I know you tried. I’ve never shamed you for your failures.”

“Bullshit,” said Gibbs.

“I blame you. Just as you blame your father. The same way my son will blame me one day. But I try not to shame.”

“Your son will blame you?”

“If we don’t act soon, Chief. If those bodies are dug up, there’ll be an investigation. Your relationship with him will be exposed. We helped.”

A cruel smile. “You want to kill Daniel Jennings.”

The words vibrated in the air between them.

“I don’t want to…”

“But we should,” said Gibbs. Almost a question.

“These are desperate times. I know someone who will.”

“And Peter?”

“Here’s what I’m proposing,” said Francis. “We give Peter a final chance. To check himself into a mental health facility. If he goes, it solves many of our problems. It will place us above suspicion because it will appear we were trying to help him. Plus if he goes, there’s a strong chance he’ll never be let out.”

“He won’t go. You know your brother.”

“Then he’ll leave us with no alternative.”

“Kill Peter.”

“Not me personally. But yes,” said Francis.

“I don’t trust whoever it is you’d ask. I’ll do it.”

“God no.”

“Why not?” said Gibbs.

“I can barely propose the idea. There’s no way, when the time came, you could actually murder your own son.”

“I’ve come close. I’ve come close several times. I been cleaning up his shit my whole life, Judge. I earned the right.”

“How would you?” said Francis.

“It’ll look like he and Jennings shot each other. Fewer questions. And everyone will believe it.”

“Is that possible?”

Gibbs stood. He’d been sitting too long and it hurt. “Hell yes. I’ve done it before. You remember Boyd and Lamb shot each other and bled to death, down Franklin County? About four years ago? That didn’t actually happen, Judge, don’t be so damn naive.”

“If you change your mind, and I think you should, I know someone.” Francis looked at his watch. “Either way, let’s be cautious. No final decisions made today. I’ll talk to Peter first.”

“I want to see my grandchildren.”

Francis stood too and retrieved his black robe from a hook on his wall. “Come to dinner. Tomorrow night.”

“So you can supervise us.”

“So I can supervise you, yes.”

“In case I get angry and do something you don’t like.”

“In case—”

Gibbs shouted, “In case what?”

“You know what. Shouting is rude, Chief, especially at a man who invited you to dinner.”

“So you can chaperone me.”

"You’re clearly upset. The idea of murdering your son bothers you, as it should. So I’ll handle it.”

Gibbs gave the chair he’d sat in a shove. It tilted and crashed forward. “That’s not it.”

After a lifetime of suffering through Gibbs’ violence, Francis exhibited no shock at his furniture on the floor.

He did, however, feel it when Gibbs pulled his service pistol from his belt. A Glock 22, blocky like the man holding it. Profane and lurid inside the chambers of a judge. Gibbs pressed the barrel into the chair, teeth grinding, and he fired three times. Despite the dampening cushions, the sound rocked the room and hurt their ears.

“Dammit, Chief!”

Quick as Gibbs pulled the gun, he holstered it again.

“I’m your daddy! Stop calling me chief.”

“You may not fire your weapon in the courthouse!”

Gibbs grabbed a stack of books from the tall shelves and pulled them onto the floor. The books landed with loud thumps. “I’m fucking mad and I’ll do as I please.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

I’m dying, son.

And no one cares.

The door behind Gibbs banged open. An armed deputy stared inside the office, eyes wild.

“This room clear?” The man’s voice shook. More like a boy, not yet twenty-five. Francis made a note to send him a gift; he’d never been so relieved.

“Get out, bailiff,” said Chief Gibbs.

“Sir, we heard—”

“It was me.” Gibbs pointed at the floor. “I dropped some books. They were loud. Close the door.”

It was an obvious and ludicrous lie. The room reeked of a discharged firearm. But the bailiff was staring at the two most powerful men he might ever meet.

Francis cleared his throat. “Thank you, Deputy Rowe. We’re fine. I’m on my way.”

“Yes sir.”

“Shut the damn door,” said Gibbs. “Or don’t I matter anymore?”

“No need. I have to be in court.” Francis strode to the door, donning the black robe and working at the collar. Desperate to get out of the room.

Gibbs said, “Francis—”

“The dinner invitation is rescinded, Chief. I’ll contact you soon about our situation.” The judge swept out of the room, his immortality shaken.

Gibbs fought down rising tides of anger and grief. When he turned to go, Deputy Rowe was still there, agape, his gun drawn.

With a sneer, “Little deputy with his big gun. What’d you think you were going to do with that?”

“Sir, I heard—”

Gibbs grabbed the deputy’s gun and took it away. Rowe didn’t fight it. Technically his boss was the sheriff, but the police chief was something akin to the same level of authority.

The hallway was populated with clerks and attorneys who’d heard the racket, so Gibbs spoke quietly.

“You ever pull