Daddy's Little Killer (27 page)

"I'm not implying that it is, Jerry. 
Although, if you have any insight into why this unusual situation
exists, I'd love to hear it.  Confidentially of course."

"Why are you interested?"

"I've seen and worked in just about every
major police force in this country, coast to coast, top to
bottom.  It's been my observation over the years that the
precincts, or divisions if you prefer, that are farther from the
leader are the ones that have a propensity for problems.  It's
sort of like that old saying about cats and mice."

"Are those departments entrenched in
non-standard police unions?"

"I'm not sure what that means. 
Non-standard."

"The benevolent brotherhoods and so
forth.  Yes, they advocate for safety and working conditions
of police officers, but they don't tie administrative hands from
discipline when its warranted."

"And George and Donald are aware of this
with the police union in Darkwater Bay?"

He shook his head, lips curled in
disgust.  "Of course they're aware.  Unfortunately, the
men and women of the police department have a guaranteed right to
choose the union that will represent them.  This is their
choice.  And why wouldn't they choose it?  Unless some
gross and obvious act of malfeasance is committed, there's very
little I'm allowed to do."

"Interesting."

"Frustrating is more apt.  And I'm
truly sorry, Helen.  I didn't want this to be an unpleasant
get-to-know-you lunch."

"No need to apologize.  I'd be lying if
I said I'm not curious about this union, but I respect that you'd
rather discuss more pleasant topics, so I'll leave it alone." 
For now.  Briscoe on the other hand would be fair game. 
He loved history so much, I'd let him illuminate the situation for
me.

"I can only imagine how devastated the FBI
must be that you've left them to come here," Jerry said. 
"After that meeting this morning, and seeing the way you handled
Danny Datello, any reservations I had were gone.  Who knows
what would've happened had I been around when Don and George
started to discuss serious pursuit, Helen?  They may have
asked for my opinion."

"You were on vacation when the decision was
made."

"Technically.  I was in the office on
Friday and left for the mountains Saturday morning.  George
said they decided to act quickly on Monday, something about news
that you might be interested in relocation."

"Right," I nodded and sipped some more
wine.  The lack of real food, excessive consumption of
caffeine and sleep deprivation made the wine hit harder than I
anticipated.  Even though I'd only had half a glass, the room
felt a little fuzzy.  "Would it be all right if we had lunch
soon?"

"Yes, of course.  It's ready.  I
hope you don't mind.  I thought we could dine in the
kitchen."

I wouldn't admit that fine dining in my
experience was a box of egg fried rice at the desk while reviewing
crime scene photos and victim statements.  A real meal at a
kitchen table would be a rare treat.

He served zucchini frittata, homemade French
bread slathered with garlic butter and a fruit plate.  And
copious apologies for not making anything more spectacular.  I
focused on the fare, rather than the dismay that Flynn Myre was in
fact waiting for us to join him in the kitchen.

"This
is
spectacular, Jerry.  If you
had any idea what I usually eat, you'd stop apologizing.  I
can't remember the last meal I had that was nutritious, not eaten
over case files or interrupted before I could enjoy an
appetizer."

"You've got to take better care of
yourself."

The words echoed in my head, fuzzy and
distant.  The fruit plate blurred.

"Helen?" a shout through a long
tunnel.  "Helen, are you all right?"

"I feel ... faint."

Four Jerry Lowes jumped out of the chair and
jerked in an odd slow motion toward me.   Or maybe it was
two Flynn Myres and two Jerry Lowes.  The sudden movement had
a jarring effect on my brain.  I felt an arm curl around my
shoulders, another slither beneath my knees.  Waves of nausea
enveloped me.  I felt like I was flying, diving from ten
thousand feet without a parachute. 

"No," I rasped.  "Not so fast."

"I can't understand you." 

I could see the words form on his lips, so
close to my face now.  The sound waves were almost
visible.  My vision swam and another bout of dizziness crashed
around me.  Everything turned sideways, back, the other
direction.  My eyes fluttered shut.  The sensation
intensified.

"
Help me
."

It was the last thing I remembered before
the world faded to black.

Chapter 25

Bile burned in the back of my throat. 
That was the nicest sensation pumping through my body.  It was
the axe buried in the front of my skull that was the real
killer.  I struggled  to move, to sit up if I was lying
down or lie down if sitting. 

The world must've been revolting, because my
muscles don't disobey when a command is ordered.  Maybe it was
the thousand pound crushing weight on top of me. 

Where the hell am I?  What was I
doing?  Have I been in a car accident?  Maybe that's
what's going on.  I'm on my way home from Rick's funeral and
flip the car.  I'm being slowly crushed to death.  How's
that for irony? 

A finger twitched.  Pain shot up my
arm.  No problem.  No pain, no gain.  Right?  A
minuscule movement was progress at least.  I kept moving the
left index finger.  This is good.  I'm left hand
dominant.  The searing pain in my head isn't a stroke that's
going to leave me paralyzed on my good side.

Finally, my hand found its mobility.  I
stepped my fingers gently over the surface of whatever supported my
body. 

Not the car.  That would be leather,
smooth and cool, tiny lines like palm prints to tickle the ridges
of my fingertips.  This was rougher.  Er, being the
operative identifier.  Not wool, but in the wool family,
perhaps.  Llama?  Alpaca?  Some exotic Peruvian
blend. 

Wait a minute.  Why would I be in Peru,
crushed in a car with a wool blend upholstery?  I was at
Rick's funeral.  That was only a few minutes ago, wasn't
it?

Yes.  Yes, I'm positive.  David
staring me down, stern.  Hurt.  Disappointed.  Well
screw him.  Who cares what he thinks of me?  The emotions
flooded my consciousness, just as they had when I felt them only a
short time ago. 

I'm pulling out my badge, his eyes begging
me not to do anything hasty.  I slam it into his open palm,
without a care that it might hurt him.  I hurt.  Why
shouldn't he share the pain?  What makes him so goddamned
...

Wait.  Am I wearing my wool coat? 
It's raining.  I forgot my umbrella.  How's that for
irony?  The angels are crying, and I'm unprepared.  I can
hear Mother clicking her tongue against  her teeth.

You mustn't forget the little things,
Helen.  You'll catch your death.

Mmm.  Death.  I hurt so
much.  Surely death is lurking at the horizon of my miserable
existence.  Death.  Old friend.  Come for me. 
Take this burden off my chest and release me to the great
nothingness.

My wrist bones grind together.  No,
that's not right.  I'm not old and arthritic yet, am I? 
Is this old age?  Dementia?  Am I trapped in an eternal
torturous loop of the worst week of my life?  Justice is not
without a vicious sense of humor perhaps.

"Helen?"

"Dad?"

My tongue is a hybrid of sandpaper and
drying Jell-O.  I can hear the pathetic attempt to form
words.  If only I could open my eyes, he could see me talking
to him.  Oh Daddy, I miss you so very much.  Why did you
have to go away?  You'd know what to do right now.  You'd
save me from my mistakes.  You are the only one who can fix
everything, wipe the slate of my mistaken existence clean and tell
me the words I ache to hear.

Everything will work out, Sprout. 
Daddy will fix it.  Don't cry.

The pain is so severe, I must be
crying.  Yes.  Either it's warm blood trickling over my
temple or ... no, it's not thick like blood.  Is blood
thick?  Have I ever bled before?

My wrist moves again, the pain dull all the
way to my elbow, like a good whack to the funny bone. 
Haha.  Funny bone, aptly nicknamed after the humerus. 
Most people misspell that bone.  Humerus. 
Humorous.  Very different.  Misery.  Happiness.

Focus, Helen.  Dad isn't
here. 

Where is
here
?

My fingers journey inward, brush against
something softer than wool.  Clothes!  Well thank
God.  I'm not being slowly crushed by a car with a wool mix
upholstery on some backwater dirt road in Peru naked.

Speaking of humor, check.  Stop
it.  This isn't funny.  Someone will find me. 
Someone will miss me.

Not Rick.  He's dead.

Not David.  He
believes I hate him.  Do I hate David?  We've been closer
than Rick and I ever were for years now.  Then again, that's
not saying much, is it, Helen?  You don't let people get too
close.  It's all a game, always a mind game.  How close
can I make someone
believe
we are without revealing anything
important?  Great fun.  Good times.

Why isn't anyone coming to rescue me?

A sliver of light above
pushes the axe blade a smidgen deeper into my gray matter.  Oh
boy.  This is it.  This has got to be it.  Look,
Dad.  We were wrong.  You really
do
see a white light when you
die.

On second thought, I'm way
to rational to fall for that
folie a
deux
.  More than
deux
.  Ninety some percent of
the world.  My eye, the left one, it's open just a slit, just
enough for light to filter into my pupil and hit the retina just
so.  Pain.  Yippie.  More of it.

Okay, Helen.  Focus.  Not just on
where you are, or what sort of upholstery is in this foreign
car.  Focus your eye.  Move the lid.  Up, up and
away.  That's right.

Blurry reality filtered
into my field of vision.  I see shapes.  Movement. 
This must be what
legally blind
looks like.  This isn't good.  I don't
even need reading glasses, though at times, they make a decent
disguise. 

Darkness, different shades from jet black to
sort of fleshy tan hover above me suddenly.  "Helen?"

The lips are stuck to my teeth. 
Sandpaper tongue makes a valiant effort to dislodge them. 
"Who are you?"

Sounded more like,
blue blar blue?

"Lie still.  You'll be fine.  I'm
not sure what happened to you.  Are you thirsty?"

And how.  But I'm not about to
complain.  This is real progress.  Consciousness. 
Comprehension. 

I nod, way on the feeble head-lolling side,
I'm sure.  His face is a little clearer now, enough for me to
distinguish worry lines around his eyes.  Why can't I make out
his face?  Wonder who the heck he is, and how he knows who I
am, but I can't seem to remember meeting him.  Ever.

"You've been pushing yourself too
hard.  I called George and told him about this episode. 
He's very concerned.  I believe he's calling Haverston to come
pick you up."

Great.  Who is George, not to mention
this Haverston?  Why can't someone give David a jingle
instead?  Good plan.  He might be royally pissed at me
for my behavior this morning, but he'd come if I called for
help.  David isn't like the men in my world.  He's truly
good.

I decide to give it a go. 
"David.  Call David."

The fuzzy caterpillars on his forehead
inched into one long beast of a worm.  "Who?"

"David. 
Levine."  Tongue thick or numb, I wasn't sure of either. 
The end result was the same.  Not-half-bad looked like I had
spoken to him in Aramaic.  "My ..."  I knew that
supervisory special agent
would come out of my mouth bordering something obscenely
suggestive.  I opted for simple.  "My boss."

The smile sent a chill straight to my
bones. 

"Yes, Helen.  David, your boss. 
Excellent.  You rest while I see how long it will take for him
to arrive."

My eye drifted shut.  So tired. 
David is coming.  He'll make sure I'm safe.  No matter
what I do, he'll help me.  Won't he?

Consciousness drifted away on a pillow of
oblivion. 

The next wave of awareness came, and the axe
was gone, replaced by the only slightly less painful distant
jackhammer to the back of my head.  I heard the groan, felt
the vibration rumble from my throat, but felt distant and
disconnected from it somehow.  My only tether was the
throbbing agony jostling its way forward through the sulci in my
brain.  Weaving, twisting, winding, dipping deep,
resurfacing.  Shuddering inexplicable torture.

I hesitated before drumming one finger on
the flat surface beneath me.  It was slick and ice cold. 
Speaking of which, I wasn't feeling so warm myself.  As if on
cue, the tiny hairs on my body stood at simultaneous attention.

This was new. 

It took a moment to register the fact that
it didn't hurt to move my finger this time.  There was no
heavy pressure on my chest.  David must've found me. 

I've got to be safe now, but whatever is
beneath me sure doesn't feel like hospital linen.  No matter
at the moment.  I can move! 

My arm tentatively lifted, the hand crawling
over more satiny fabric.  Not a hospital gown.  This
feels like ... it feels like my nightgown.  What the
hell?  Have I been dreaming?  Oh please let this be a
dream!  Not just the funeral, all of it.  Maybe I'll open
my eyes and find Dad staring down at me, ready to explain that I've
been ill.  Mononucleosis perhaps.  Yes!  I've been
so tired, burning the wick from both ends of the candle.