Debts

I am posting this as a response to the "Gather Writing Essentials" Thursday prompt. The theme gave me an excuse to post this story excerpted from my book, "That's My Story!" which is a collection of short stories. I hope that all who read it enjoy it.
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       As Matt Cleary lay on the cold, wet pavement, gazing up at his own personal Grim Reaper, he simmered with rage. Yes, he was angry with the punk who stood over him, aiming his own department-issued 9mm at him. But mostly, he was furious at himself. When he’d pulled the Toyota Celica over for running a stop sign, he never ran the plates; and that was a cardinal sin. Rule number one for all traffic stops is to run the plates. That way you know who the hell you're dealing with and dispatch knows where you are and what kind of car you have pulled over just in case God forbid, the worst should happen. Tonight the worst did happen, and no one knew where Matt was or whom he had pulled over; and it just so happened that he’d pulled over Satan himself.
      
       He was going to be off in ten minutes and had stopped at a fast food outlet to grab a hamburger when he noticed that the black Toyota hadn’t completely stopped at the intersection of Gardner and Rowan. He could see by the glow of the streetlights, that the driver was alone and about twenty years old. He looked like a college kid, harmless enough, so Matt decided to just give him a warning and let him go; no need for a license check. It took a bit to catch the kid as he’d gotten a small head start while Matt was considering just letting him go. The rain started to fall again as he stepped from his cruiser and walked towards the Toyota. Halfway to the car, there arose a very uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. For a moment, he considered going back to his cruiser and running the plates, but he talked himself out of it. His dinner was getting cold and he saw the driver; the kid was harmless! But just in case, he unsnapped his holster.

       Matt reached the Celica and leaned in to talk to the driver. But he noticed in his peripheral vision that a pickup truck was coming up the road. He straightened back up and pressed himself against the Toyota to let the truck drive past. As he waited, the nightmare began to unfold. Like all horrific moments, it seemed to happen in slow motion. The pale, hairy hand reached through the open window and grabbed at his gun. Matt wanted to lurch away, but the pickup wasn’t clear yet, if he pulled away the back bumper would hook him and possibly tear his leg off. That truck seemed to take an eternity to pass by; when it finally did, Matt jerked away and rolled into the road. He never heard the shot, but he knew something was very, very wrong. There was the familiar taste of blood that he had come to know, courtesy of a few ‘perps’ who’d taken a poke at him over his three years as a cop. There was the grit of broken teeth and a dull throbbing in his right jaw. The ringing in his right ear and the incessant pulsating on the right side of his mouth and face told him that something was horribly amiss. He was back on his elbows trying to regain his wits when the door of the Toyota swung menacingly open. He noticed how well polished the black military boots were; they glistened in the wet night. With the street light behind his assailant, Matt couldn’t see his eyes but he could see the glint of the gold tooth and that wide menacing grin. The kid was tall, about six-three and very thin. He wore a long dark, duster style coat that flopped in the rainy breeze as he extended both arms to take aim for the kill shot. Matt silently prayed a final prayer.

Suddenly, Matt heard hurried footsteps to his left, and so did his assailant. He wheeled away from Matt and towards the front of his car and fired two hurried shots, but it was too late, with a flying lunge the heaven sent interloper was upon him. The two men fought ferociously for a few moments before Matt finally realized that he had a chance to decide the outcome. As the two men gouged at one another’s faces and growled like animals, Matt dragged himself towards the spot where the gun had clattered to the ground. Only now did Matt see the blood that streamed from his jaw onto the pavement as if streaming from a faucet left half-on.

As Matt reached the gun, his rescuer screamed in agony at the thumb being gouged into his eye. Momentarily blinded, the strapping middle-aged man staggered backwards; giving his slender adversary the opening he needed to throw the deciding punch. The blow landed flush on the jaw, knocking the intervening hero unconscious and onto the road. Whirling to return to his original assault, the slender attacker saw that Matt was kneeling with the gun trained on him, but he paused only for an instant before charging Matt, leaving Matt without options.

Only as his stretcher was being slid into the ambulance, did Matt find out that his rescuer, a man named Tim Stone, had been hit in the chest by one of the shots fired at him in his initial charge. Tim and Matt were both going to live, which was more than could be said for Mr. Kerwin Grant, who was dead before he hit the wet pavement.

Over the next several months family members and fellow officers kept constant watch over Matt as he recovered. But despite the shower of concern, Matt was troubled. There was something he had to do. When he was finally able, Matt went immediately across town to the Stone home. Tim wasn’t quite back on his feet yet so he sat in his chair while his wife showed Matt in. He crossed the room and introduced himself.

       “Mr. Stone, my name is Matt Cleary.”

       “I know who you are,” Tim said as he struggled to stand up.

       “Please don’t get up Mr. Stone, I just came over to thank you for what you did; you saved my life.”

       “Don’t worry about it,” Tim answered, falling back into his chair.

       “Don’t worry?” he said a bit incredulously. “You got shot saving my life. I owe you my life.”

       “No you don’t, we’re even,” Tim answered quite firmly. “I see you in that McDonalds all the time when I get my coffee there. You don’t recognize me do you? But I recognized you that night; we left at the same time. I was a little bit behind you leaving the parking lot. I passed you when you pulled that skinny bastard over and I saw the muzzle flash in my rear-view mirror when he shot you. I was going to turn around and run him down with my truck, but he was too close to you, I might have hit you too. But there was no way I could leave you there.” he said as he reached into the drawer of the table beside his chair and pulled out a picture. “This is my daughter Rachel,” he explained, handing the picture over to Matt. “I see you remember her. It was almost three years ago, you pulled her out of her burning car, the paper said that you were burned over forty percent of your body but you didn’t back off. Because of you she’s a junior at State College instead of just another dead person under a gray headstone. You don’t owe me a thing!” he said as he finally managed to get to his feet and held Matt in a firm embrace.

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Information about my book can be found at GHMonroe.com