Sacrificial Ground Read Free

dishevelment. “At least she kept a clean house, had a hot meal on the table for you when you came home.”
    â€œThat’s not a marriage, Alvin.”
    â€œAnd this, the way you’re living, you call this a life?”
    â€œIt’ll do,” Frank said quietly. He stood up, walked to the window and parted the blinds. “I’m on duty today at eight.”
    â€œI got the afternoon tour,” Alvin said wearily.
    Frank released the blinds and returned to the sofa. “How’s Mildred these days?” he asked.
    â€œShe’ll do,” Alvin said. “Says maybe I should let you go, just like Sheila did.”
    Frank shrugged. “Well, maybe you should, Alvin. I mean, what the hell, right?” He cleared his throat roughly, then changed the subject. “How’s Maryann?”
    â€œFine,” Alvin said. “Dating a quarterback.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out the badge and tossed it to Frank. “Patrolmen found this in the alley.”
    Frank placed the badge on the small table in front of the sofa. “I’ll thank them.”
    â€œWhere was your service revolver?” Alvin asked pointedly.
    â€œI left it home.”
    â€œYou’re supposed to have it with you all the time.”
    â€œI don’t think that’s a good idea for me.”
    â€œCould have saved you a beating.”
    â€œOr got me something worse, like a manslaughter rap if I’d smoked one of those guys.”
    â€œStill regulations, Frank,” Alvin said. “Next time, take it with you.” He stood up. “I’m heading home now.” He glanced at his watch. “Might be able to grab an hour of shut-eye.”
    The phone rang as Frank stood up to walk his brother to the door. He answered it immediately. It was Pitman at headquarters, making a last call before leaving duty.
    â€œYou fit for a tour?” Pitman asked.
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œWe’ve got a body off Glenwood. Feel like checking it out?”
    â€œOkay,” Frank said. He reached for the small pad beside the phone and copied down the address as Pitman gave it to him.
    â€œSure you’re up for it, Frank?” Pitman asked.
    â€œYeah, I’m fine,” Frank said, trying to bring some lightness into his voice. “Just a little tussle.”
    He hung up and glanced at Alvin, who was poised, waiting, at the door.
    â€œWhat is it?” Alvin asked.
    â€œA body.”
    Alvin smiled wearily. “Oh,” he said, “one of those.”
    Caleb Stone was already at the scene when Frank arrived. He was the old man of the division, full of what appeared almost ancient wisdom about the ways of men and murder. He’d been born into a tenant farmer family in south Georgia, and his early years had been spent picking a rich man’s cotton from dawn to dusk. He’d moved to Atlanta at the age of twenty, brought there by his mother, who worked in the huge brick textile mill which still stood at the border of Cabbagetown, and which, in a sense, served as its monument, towering over the unpainted wooden tenements in which its workers lived.
    Caleb lumbered over to meet Frank and squinted hard. “Heard you had a little trouble,” he said, “but I didn’t figure you for this kind of whupping.”
    â€œThree of them,” Frank explained.
    They were standing at the edge of a large deserted lot. The surrounding buildings were squat, brick constructions, an evangelical storefront church stood at one corner of the lot, a small auto parts store at the other.
    â€œNice neighborhood,” Caleb said with a slight grin. “Ask God what the trouble with the Ford is, then march right over and buy the part.”
    â€œWhat have we got here, Caleb?” Frank asked.
    â€œWhat we got, Frank,” Caleb says, “is something that gives new meaning to the phrase ‘shallow grave.’”
    â€œMeaning what?”
    â€œMeaning we