The Target

Detective Micah Thompson smoked a cigarette under the cover of an aging black oak while he studied his target. The grey February sky had finally broken open and rain burst out in thick, swollen drops.

His target sat at a small round table beneath the awning of a cafe across the street. 

Micah watched as the man rose, tucked some cash beneath the salt shaker, and headed toward town. Micah tossed his cigarette and flipped his coat collar up. He buried his hands deep into the pockets and followed. Hunched forward, Micah stepped with purpose as the rainfall increased. The wind blew it into his eyes, blurring his vision. His target donned his hood and quickened his pace into the heart of downtown.

Micah crossed the street and fell in pace about twenty yards behind him. Despite the weather, plenty of pedestrians moved through the bustling town center. Although quaint, Cedar Ridge had an unusually active community. It was one of the first things that had attracted Micah to this charming little mountain town. However, it was the job opening that initially put Cedar Ridge on his radar. Micah had always dreamed of becoming a detective and after ten years as an officer, a detective position opened up in Cedar Ridge. He couldn’t help but jump at the opportunity. 

“The people in this town sure don’t like staying home on the weekends do they?” Micah’s wife, Lindsay, said as they strolled hand-in-hand along the cobblestoned main street. “You’d think Cedar Ridge had fifty-thousand residents with a crowd like this, not fifty-five hundred.”

Micah agreed. He had been worried that this move would strain their marriage. Lindsay had lived her whole life in the city before they moved out here. He hoped the lifestyle wouldn’t be too drastic a change for her. But so far his anxiety about it seemed premature. 

“Maybe moving to this town was just what we needed,” Micah said. 

Boy was I wrong, Micah thought as he closed the gap on his target. The sky darkened and the rain fell in sheets, pooling and splattering off the street. The man pushed open a door to one of the shops up ahead and stepped inside. Micah weaved through the crowd of umbrellas and hooded jackets. He reached the shop. The name Second-hand Stories arced across the top edge of the display window. Micah pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The bookstore, a repurposed Victorian home, provided endless rooms and hallways to meander through while searching for that next enchanting read. The main room had a stone fireplace built into the back wall. A rustic wooden table with long, cushioned benches stretched before the hearth. Patrons sat and enjoyed their warm escape from the storm, heads buried in their potential purchases. A snoozing orange tabby was stretched out on the mantle above the crackling flames. Light jazz filled the room from hidden speakers.

Micah scanned the scene, searching for his target. He moved further into the store, peaking around bookshelves and working his way down various hallways that led to other rooms on the first floor. 

As he worked through the rooms, Micah was hit with the memory of the last time he was here. It was with Lindsay about a year after their move. Her initial optimism had withered away and been replaced with a silent spite. He had worked nights that first year. With Cedar Ridge being so rural and small, his detective duties were rarely a part of his day-to-day. He mostly functioned as a standard police officer, running the night beat, and occasionally heading up the investigations of small thefts and other minor disturbances that took place here. Although he often reminded her that they wouldn’t stay in Cedar Ridge forever, that this was just a way to get some detective time down on his resume, Lindsay seemed unconvinced. Their marriage suffered and Micah found that they sometimes went weeks without saying hardly a word to each other.

And then the murder happened.

It was the first murder to take place in Cedar Ridge for ten years and the case went to Micah. The town was horrified. Micah was ecstatic. It was his first meaningful case as a detective and his first chance to show what he could do. The department switched him to days so he could follow up with leads and perform the necessary interviews. Micah hit the case hard and within a few weeks, he had a suspect behind bars awaiting trial.

On his first day off in weeks, he asked Lindsay if she wanted to walk into town. To Micah’s surprise, she accepted. They found themselves in this bookstore and began browsing the shelves, getting separated as their interests led them down separate hallways and into different rooms. After finding a novel that held promise, Micah wandered through the old Victorian home in search of Lindsay. When he finally found her, she was talking in hushed tones to a man at the end of an aisle of books. They seemed to know each other and their conversation looked tense.

“Lindsay?” Micah said, stepping into the aisle. She turned with a jolt.

“Hey, Honey,” She said, stepping away from the man. “This is Jimmy. He owns that cute little cocktail bar on Front Street. Goldfinch.”

The man stepped around Lindsay and held his hand out to Micah. “Hey there, James McCormack.”

Micah shook. “Micah Thompson.” 

When Micah didn’t offer more, James cleared his throat and spoke again. “Well, I should get going. The bar’s opening soon. It was good running into you Lindsay,” he looked back at her. “And nice meeting you Micah. You two should come by Goldfinch for a drink soon.”

“Sure thing,” Micah said.

James nodded and slid past Micah who refused to make room. He watched him leave.

“Jimmy, huh?” Micah said to Lindsay when they were alone again.

“Oh, stop,” she said, averting his gaze. “That’s what everyone calls him.”

Micah cleared the bottom floor of the bookstore and worked his way to the second level in search of his target. The anticipation of the confrontation was beginning to unsettle him. He placed a hand on the bulge at his hip. His concealed firearm sat beneath his long coat, giving him some comfort.

The second level of the bookstore contained a hallway lined with bookshelves. Multiple doors on each side led to individual rooms. Micah stepped with care, his eyes scanning and darting around the hallway, searching for blind spots. All of his police training was starting to kick in. He knew he had his target cornered, now he just had to take him down. 

Micah leaned his head into the first room on his left. A baby blue sofa seat sat empty in the corner with an antique lamp looming over it. A coffee table stood in front of the chair atop a lavish rug. The table was empty except for a newspaper that caught Micah’s eye. It was an issue from about a month ago but Micah recognized it instantly. 

He read the heading to himself even though he already had it memorized:

LOCAL DETECTIVE BOTCHES MURDER INVESTIGATION

Det. Micah Thompson of Cedar Ridge Police Department mishandles key evidence leading to the acquittal of prime suspect in Brooks murder.

Micah picked up the paper and peered at the two photos accompanying the article. One was a picture of him. The other was a picture of Lee Evans, the murderer who’d been acquitted due to his sloppy police work. 

Micah threw the pages down in disgust. He’d spent the past month berating himself for the stupidity that had allowed the man whom he was certain killed Natalia Brooks to walk free. It had destroyed his reputation and most likely his career. His superiors hadn’t come down with any specific punishment, yet, but rumors were floating around the office that a transfer was in order. Micah could barely stand to step foot in the office anymore. The small chatting groups that went silent when he entered a room, the sideways glances, the pitiful stares. It all drove him crazy.

His home offered even less respite from the stress. The case had caused the cracks in his marriage to swell into gapping crevasses that were now far too deep and wide to ever hope to mend. 

But all that stress and turmoil would end today. Micah had done some detective work on his own, off the books. No evidence to mishandle here. He would be the prosecutor, the judge, and the jury. 

A creak in the old wooden floorboards caused Micah to spin around, unholstering his firearm as he did. A man stood in the doorway and instinctively threw his hands in the air.

“Whoa, hey there Detective Thompson. Uh, Micah.” the man stammered. “I thought that that was you. It’s just me, James. James McCormack, remember? I own the Goldfinch cocktail bar.”

Micah didn’t lower his gun. “Oh, I remember you, Mr. McCormack.”

James knotted his eyebrows and let out a nervous laugh. “Well, alright then”―his hands still in the air―“how about lowering that gun?”

“Close the door behind you, Mr. McCormack,” Micah said, his gun raised. James didn’t respond, only stared. Confused. “Now!” Micah demanded, raising his voice.

James closed the door behind him. “Now look, Detective, I don’t know what Lindsay told you but―”

“Sit down,” Micah said, cutting him off. He motioned with his gun at the plush blue chair in the corner. James did, never taking his eyes off of Micah.

Micah was pleased with the situation. Although his target had surprised him, he wasn’t upset with the outcome. At least in his own personal investigations, he caught breaks. That couldn’t be said for his professional life.

“I came here looking for you,” Micah said.

James looked surprised. “For me?”

“I know about you and my wife.”

“Look detective, I never wanted any of this, okay? See, she was the one who―”

“Enough,” Micah said. “I’ve had enough of the he-said-she-said bullshit. Too much of my time has been spent on blame and ownership recently, the who-did-what and what it all means for who. Fuck it. None of it matters anymore. All that matters is that I’m taking control of my story now. No more gossip. No more rumors. Just me. My gun. And you.”

James took an audible gulp while looking for the words that might get him out of this situation. His eyes darted around the room and landed on the newspaper article on the floor. “Him!” James pointed at the picture of Lee Evans. “That’s the guy you want. Lee something-or-other. He’s the guy who killed that girl right? That’s who you want. That’s how you make this all right.”

“Oh, Lee and I will have a meeting soon enough,” Micah said. “But right now, you’re the man I came to see.”

James froze as Micah steadied the gun on him. Neither man made any noise. The only sound was from the rain pelting the roof of the old Victorian. Micah wiped his face, his hand coming up wet. He took in a breath, held it. 

Exhaled smoke. 

𑇐     𑇐     𑇐

Detective Micah Thompson smoked a cigarette under the cover of an aging black oak while he studied his target. The grey February sky had finally broken open and rain burst out in thick, swollen drops. 

James McCormack sat at a small round table beneath the awning of a cafe across the street. 

He shared that table with Micah’s wife.

Micah held out his arm, pointing and curling his fingers into the shape of a gun.

He steadied them. Aimed.

Bang.

James said something to Lindsay.

Lindsay smiled. Laughed. 

She placed a hand on James’s arm.

A Greyhound bus pulled up to the curb on Micah’s side of the street, obscuring his view. Micah lowered his arm. He took one final drag of his cigarette before tossing the butt onto the ground. Picking up his suitcase, Micah boarded the bus.