Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ Game of Revenge ❯ Chapter 11

“Hey Jack, how long have you been here? You should go and get some rest.” Russell peered into the dim office and spoke to the man in the straight-backed chair before the wall of clippings. He entered, squeezing past a large file cabinet whose drawers had been thrown open haphazardly, their contents hastily removed and then unceremoniously shoved back. He walked over to the detective and placed a broad hand on his shoulder.

“Jack?”

The detective jumped and turned around. Dark circles had been gauged under his eyes, his hair was unkempt, and he gave off a powerful scent of stale drink. But his eyes themselves were sharp and clear, and glared at the interrupter briefly before relaxing.

“Oh, it's you. Sit down, I have something to show you.”

“You need to go home and rest, Jack, you've been here almost nonstop since Eddie died and Bertha says you haven't left the office since yesterday.”

“I've been busy, Russell, there's a lot of reports here I have to go through.” Jack's voice was calm and flat.

“Well, why don't I take over for a bit and you can go home?”

“I don't need to go home. I'm fine.” Jack replied with a bite of coldness. “Come over here and look at what I found.”

Russell glanced at the empty bottles that littered the once relatively ordered desk, and then to the half-empty one in Jack's hand.

“How many of these did you have, Jack?”

Jack's head was pounding again. Why wouldn't Russell just leave him alone? It was none of his business what he, Jack, did with his time, and Russell certainly didn't need to know how much alcohol he had consumed, absolutely not. Russell was just being a nosy idiot. It was certainly not helping the case, and it was definitely not helping the jarring tempo in Jack's head. He needed quiet. He needed to find Kyle Tompson and make him pay for what he had taken.

“Shut up, Russell.”

“What? Jack, I'm just concerned…”

“I don't care.”

“Jack, you need to go home, and I intend for that to happen.”

Jack could sense the threat hidden in the chief's reply, but he stood his ground.

“I'll go home at the end of the day Russell, no sooner.”

“I want to see you leave here by five, Jack, do you hear me?”

Jack nodded a reply, and then took another drink. Russell grabbed the bottle from his hand.

“I think you've had enough, Jack. Get back to work.”

Iron grey eyes followed Chief O'Neil out of the office. As soon as the door had closed and the heavy footfalls receded far down the hall, Jack turned back to the pile of reports and began to read them furiously, jotting down notes and absorbing every word.

He went home at six. The reports spun around in his head as he recited dates, figures, and locations of every crime Kyle Tompson had ever been even briefly associated with. The pain in his temples had abated slightly, and Jack was wandering the streets, looking from one alleyway to the next, searching. He finally made it back to his apartment at nine-thirty. He threw a few eggs into a pan and ate them quietly. Where would Kyle Tompson be now? What other crimes had he committed by this time? Because Tompson was a cold-blooded murderer who relished in taking lives, in watching the last rivulets of blood drip into the gutters. Jack hated Kyle, this boy who had taken away everything from him. Jack would find him, oh yes he would, he would find him and he would make him pay. Kyle Tompson had stolen from him that no good little shit and he was going to kill him. It was only fair. Equivalent trade. Jack washed down his dinner with a glass of whiskey. He glanced at the bottle and noted that he was running low; he would have to get more tomorrow, that is, if he could sneak past Russell's new mother-hen policy. Jack made his way to his bedroom and settled on top of the sheets. I'll get him, Eddie, I'll get him and when I do I'll make sure he never forgets.