Last week I
got a message from a friend who enjoys reading about the antics of my
characters. Along with a few other
comments, she had one question. “Where’s Jamie?
It’s been a while since you’ve written about her.”
Well, that’s
not entirely true. Jamie had an integral
role in the second Jefferson Chene mystery “Your Turn to Die”. This seemed only fitting since Chene made his
first appearance in print in “Vanishing Act” which is the second novel in the
Jamie Richmond romance/mystery series.
In addition to the three individual books, Jamie also was the
protagonist in “Stealing Haven” a short story about her summer vacation, set in
South Haven, Michigan.
So it’s not
like I’ve forgotten my stubborn redhead. She’s been reluctantly taking a
backseat while I’m working on another project. It’s easy for me to picture her
standing there, hands on her hips, impatiently tapping a foot with an indignant
smirk on her face. When the current story is finished and I start working on
her adventures, she will be muttering ‘about time’ in my ear.
As a writer,
I strive to create memorable characters. I want them to be realistic, to share
some of the challenges everyday people face. That makes them more believable.
So when I have someone asking about her, as if she’s going to turn a corner and
bump into Jamie, it makes me smile.
She must be
real, right?
(Could this be Jamie?)
With the
focus of today’s feature on Jamie, it seemed logical to start with her first
appearance. Here’s an excerpt from “Devious”.
In this
scene, Jamie has been riding along with Kleinschmidt, also known as Smitty, a
state trooper on patrol. The intent was to do some research for a character in
an upcoming book. At the beginning of the shift, she met Sergeant Malone.
We
patrolled some of the surface streets for a while, delaying our return to the
interstate. Kleinschmidt seemed restless. Maybe dinner hadn't agreed with him.
If I devoured my meal that fast, my stomach would certainly revolt. We turned
toward the approach ramp for the freeway and a pickup truck zoomed out of the
dark, narrowly missing our front fender.
"What
the hell was that?" Smitty snapped on the lights and the siren. The pickup
was bathed in the red twirling light. The truck's color was a faded white,
dotted along the fenders. Gradually it veered across the bridge for the
interstate and eased over to the shoulder.
"Drunk
driver?" I asked.
"It
could be. Wait here." He glanced at me as he started to get out of the
vehicle. "And I mean it this
time."
"Okay,
okay."
Smitty radioed in his location and climbed out
of the patrol car. The spotlight mounted on his door was trained on the truck.
Shadows filled the cab.
Kleinschmidt
headed straight for the truck as the driver’s door swung open. There was no one
else on the road. No traffic of any kind. This section of the city didn’t even have
streetlights burning. This wasn’t a residential area. It was more commercial,
with little factories, probably the type that supported the auto industry.
Around metropolitan Detroit, a majority of the businesses relate to the
automotive industry in one form or another.
Casually, I let my eyes drift over to the right, where the outline of a
warehouse could just be seen beyond the cruiser’s spotlight. I was wondering if
Smitty would give this person a warning or if his indigestion would result in a
ticket.
Suddenly, I saw a flash of light and heard a
muffled bang. Smitty pitched onto his back, his right hand clawing feebly at
his holster as a loud roar reached my ears. The door of the truck was still
open, a brown arm extended beyond the edge of the spotlight. A gun was clutched
in the gloved hand. I watched in horror as the trigger was pulled back for
another shot.
Everything
that happened next must have been instinct. Or maybe it was merely a reaction.
Or dumb luck. Or the Force. Yeah, maybe it was the Force. I don’t think I’ll
ever know for sure.
I reached
across and pounded on the horn with one hand, flipping the buttons Smitty had
used to activate the siren with the other. The sudden noise startled the
driver. His arm jerked back into the cab
and the door slammed. Spraying stones and dust behind, the truck lurched onto
the road and raced away.
Fumbling
the microphone off the dash, I thumbed the button. "Kleinschmidt has been
shot! Send an ambulance!" I dropped the microphone and managed to get my
door open. The frame around the window clipped my forehead and knocked me back
a step.
I'd
forgotten to turn off the siren and its wail was splitting my eardrums.
“Idiot,” I muttered, “stay calm.” This was
easier to say than it ever was to do.
Reaching
back inside, I switched the siren off then rushed around to the front of the
car. Smitty was lying on his back on the
edge of the road. Blood soaked the gravel beneath him. His eyes were closed,
but I could see his chest moving.
I dropped
to my knees beside him. "You're going to be okay, Smitty. I called for
help."
"Shot
by a dog," he whispered. Kleinschmidt opened his eyes weakly. "First
aid kit in the trunk. Stop the bleeding." His voice was fading so fast I
had to press my ear above his mouth. I got a whiff of grilled onions.
What if
the truck came back? What if they were
waiting right now, just beyond the reach of the spotlight, waiting for me to
get close so they could kill Smitty? And
kill the witness too? I cringed. They wouldn’t need to shoot us, just drive
right over us with that truck. My imagination was running away with
possibilities.
With a
shake of my head, I chased such thoughts away. I ran back to the car. I dropped
the keys three times after getting them out of the ignition before finally
jamming the right one into the trunk lock. There was a white metal box with a
red cross on it. I lugged it back to
Smitty and knelt beside him. Where the hell was that ambulance?
There were
latex gloves inside the kit on top of all the equipment. I pulled them on and
rummaged through the contents. I found some large sterile gauze pads and some
medical tape. Somehow I managed to crudely tape the gauze to each side of his
shoulder. The bullet had entered through a small hole just beneath the
collarbone on his right side. The exit wound looked bigger than a golf ball.
"You're
going to be all right, Smitty." I don't know if I said this for his benefit
or mine.
He groaned
and closed his eyes again.
I didn’t
know what else to do. I’d called for help. I’d patched him up. There was no way
I could move him. But I didn’t think I was supposed to anyway. I thought he was
still breathing, but I wasn’t sure.
Closed eyes meant death. I was sure of it.
I rocked
forward and slapped his cheek. Hard. "Don't you die on me!" I
screamed.
His eyes
fluttered open.
My limited
medical knowledge flashed through my mind—coma, shock, heart attack, trauma,
tonsillitis. I had no idea what else to do for him. Where were the
professionals? They should have been here already!
My eyes
kept flicking from Smitty’s face, to his wound, to the direction the truck had
taken. Suddenly I heard the sound of a siren. Then another joined in. I
swiveled my head, trying to find them. Another groan escaped Smitty’s lips. My
eyes searched his body for signs of life. I thought it was too late.
The siren
sounded close now. I glanced up as the ambulance and another patrol car
arrived.
"What
the hell took you guys so long?" I shouted as they rushed to us. The
paramedics rudely pushed me aside and bent over Smitty. I was about to kick one
guy squarely in the ass when someone grabbed me from behind and lifted me off
the ground. I was carried back to Smitty's car, struggling all the way.
Finally, they sat me down on the hood.
My eyes focused and I recognized Sergeant Malone.
"Relax,
Jamie. Let the paramedics do their job."
I was
exasperated. How could he be so calm when one of his own men lay there wounded? "He could be dead by now, Malone. He's
been lying there bleeding for over an hour."
"It
hasn't been an hour. It's only been three minutes." Malone tried to smile
but it never reached his eyes.
"Three
minutes?"
"Three
minutes. Your call came in two minutes after Smitty radioed in his position.
His report was logged in at ten-fourteen. Your call was at ten-sixteen. It's
now ten-nineteen."
"Three
minutes?" I repeated.
"That's
all, Jamie." Malone pointed over my shoulder to the ambulance. They were already
loading Smitty into the back of the wagon. One of the medics waved at Malone,
flashing a thumbs up signal. Malone
returned the gesture.
"He's
okay?"
"He's
not going to die. Kleinschmidt's damn lucky you were riding with him tonight.
Help might not have gotten here so quickly if it weren't for you." We
watched the ambulance race away, sirens wailing. The hospital was two miles up
the road.
"It
all happened so fast."
Buy Links:
Music this week
comes from Willie Nelson.
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