Grant Stone - Mistaken Identity Ch 1

Grant Stone - Mistaken Identity

Chapter 1

The Sunday morning sun beamed into the greenhouse and engulfed me in bright warmth that dispelled the Oregon-coast chill. The rich fragrance from hundreds of flowers filled the place as I waited for Kate to arrive, so I could give her the Grant Stone short-version of the pre-nuptial investigation on her beau, and get on with my day.  

I’d spend an hour or so and fix the leak on Mr. Farnsworth’s roof, before he tried hauling his 90 year-old body up there, again. Then, enjoy the rest of what promised to be an unusually agreeable day at the beach with Ranger, my faithful Frisbee-fetching pound-puppy. I’d finish the day with Sabrina – dinner, a play, the evening and maybe if things worked out, the night.

I heard the greenhouse door open, and turned to greet my client.

My right shoulder jerked back as a bullet ripped into it. I heard the muffled whump of a silenced gunshot. A searing stab replaced the shock of the impact as the slug burrowed into me. I gasped for breath. Today is not starting out as well as I had hoped.  Just what I need, another bullet hole.

     To my credit at least, even as the thought formed, I dove into the flower bed behind a low rock wall for cover. On the way down, I drew my .45 auto with my left hand. Not an easy task with a right-hand holster, but I’ve practiced, just in case. My shoulder was on fire. Landing on it didn’t help. Pain exploded from my shoulder and flooded through the rest of my body, but I pressed my six-three frame as tight to the ground as I could.

The greenhouse got darker. I couldn’t tell if coastal clouds had covered the sun, or I was going into shock. 

I snuck a quick glance out from the end of the rock wall and caught a glimpse of my assailant. I heard another whump and a bullet hit the rocks just above my head. It spewed a swarm of shards, most of which seemed to find their way into my scalp and forehead. Even though it landed a few inches away, it sounded like it hit between my ears.

Thanks to creeping nausea, the flowers I was crushing smelled sickly-sweet, a sharp contrast to the acrid smell of the gunpowder smoke filling the air.

“Make this easy on you self, Jack,” my assailant called out calmly. “Just stand up. Let me put you out of your misery. You’re hit bad, and you’re not going to make it out of here. You can lie there and bleed to death slowly or I can make it quick and easy for you.”

He had a point. I was getting cold. The darkness kept creeping deeper.

But his icy manner irked me, and he left out one option.

I knew about where he was standing. It didn’t sound as though he had moved. I figured he was just cocky enough to believe he was invincible.

I flicked the thumb safety off my Colt .45 and said a quick prayer. My shoulder screamed, Don’t move, but I didn’t want to miss my dinner date. I edged back along the wall and pushed myself up just high enough to get the muzzle of my Colt over the top. I got a sight picture, and capped off one round. He wasn’t exactly where I thought he’d be, but close enough.

That got his attention, but his gun was still aimed at the end of the wall where he’d tried to shoot off my face. In the instant it took him to swing the muzzle of his weapon to where I had popped up, I fired again.

I emptied all six rounds from my magazine in less than three seconds. The first shot missed. The second tagged his right arm. The third planted squarely in the right side of his chest. The fourth and fifth hit where his heart would be, if he had one. The sixth caught him on the left side of his chest as he pirouetted away.

I was on empty and having trouble loading in a new magazine with only my left hand. He didn’t know he was already dead, but I hoped he’d figure it out before he sent any more rounds my direction.

Sure enough. He dropped. When he hit the floor he grunted once, then lay as still as the bougainvilleas hanging over his head.

No, actually, they were swaying slightly from the air he disturbed on the way down. He wasn’t moving at all.

“My name’s not Jack.” Unless his spirit was hanging around to see what happened, I knew he couldn’t hear me, I just wanted to clear it up.

I’m punchier than I thought I was.

I pulled myself up using the rock wall as a brace. Got about to my knees and fell backward away from the wall. Pain burst from my shoulder into every inch of my body.

I may not be the sharpest crayon in the box, but I decided not to try that again. I decided to just lay quiet and recover a bit, or wait for some Good Samaritan to show up and help me.

Somebody must have heard the shots.

It’s funny, one shot, maybe two, and folks think backfire, or fireworks, but when you cap off six in rapid succession, some brain-child is likely to think, hey, that sounds like gunshots! Fortunately for me, I wasn’t in Portland, or I might be lying on the floor for days. Here in Lincoln City we don’t have much gang activity, and outside of deer and elk season, not many shots fired.

I heard sirens and hoped help was coming.

Somebody probably called the police. Thank God for small miracles. It gave me a warm fuzzy feeling knowing I wasn’t going to have to drag myself out.

I peeked over the top of the wall again, just to make sure the bozo I’d laid to rest didn’t resurrect or reincarnate. Not so far.

“This is the police, come out with your hands up!” A husky and welcome, though unfamiliar voice called over a loudspeaker from somewhere outside the greenhouse.

If I could’ve come out, I’d already be out. My last attempt at getting up hadn’t ended well, and even if I got up, I wasn’t sure I could raise my hands. So I just laid there. I scooted my .45 away from my hand because I didn’t want some overzealous rookie officer to get the wrong idea and finish what that speed-bump on the floor had started.

While I waited for the police to get tired of yelling for me to come out, and I had a moment for quiet contemplation, two nagging questions surfaced. Who was this guy? And, why did he shoot me?