Knowing (16 page)

Jane watched as a little brown haired girl about eight years old ran through the field toward the barn, carrying a baby goat. Almost simultaneously, Jane felt an insect work its way up the inside of her right pant leg. “Jesus!” she whispered, standing up quickly.

In that second, the little girl turned and stopped in her tracks, staring at Jane across the grassy field. Jane ducked back down but she knew the kid had already spotted her.

“Sarah!” her father yelled again. “Stop screwing around and get in here!”

Jane carefully looked up again from her crouched position. The child continued toward the barn but seemed more entranced with Jane than concerned. There were two options here, Jane factored. One was to continue to the barn and see what food she could grab and the other was to return empty handed to the Mustang. With her churning, hungry gut, the choice was obvious. By the time she reached the rear of the two-story wooden building, she could easily hear the loud scolding Sarah’s father was delivering to his daughter.

“When I tell you to come here, I don’t mean in five minutes!” he berated her. “I mean immediately! You understand?”

Jane carefully moved around the structure toward an open window.

“I don’t want to hear any excuses out of your mouth, Sarah! We’ve got the Farmer’s Market tomorrow. You know your responsibilities and I’m sick and tired of having to remind you! Is that clear?
You understand me
?”

Jane couldn’t hear the kid’s response but it didn’t matter. Her triggers were igniting. “You understand me?” may have been three simple words to anyone else, but to Jane they sent her backward twenty-three years and into that chaotic household. That impulsive urge to strike out and attack the oppressor was there but the situation didn’t allow for it.

“Smarten up, Sarah! Nobody in this world is going to give you anything! There are
no free lunches
! Remember that! You understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” the child said, in a strong voice.

“Do your job!” With that, the man irately walked out of the barn and headed across the field.

Jane stood motionless for several minutes. She didn’t hear anything inside the barn and so she craned her neck and glanced into the window. The kid was gone.

“Hi.”

Jane spun around. “Fuck!”

Sarah stood behind Jane with a soft smile. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

The awkwardness of the moment was only outdone by Jane’s desperation. “I’m not gonna hurt you, okay?”

“I know you’re not,” the girl replied softly as she petted the goat’s head.

Somehow the kid knew Jane was okay, although Jane had no clue how this child figured that out so quickly. “You got some milk and eggs in there?”

“Uh-huh,” the girl nodded.

“Can I get some?”

The child checked around the corner. “Can you move fast?”

“Fast enough, kid.”

Jane followed Sarah into the barn. On one side were the two cows in their milking stalls. Above them was a hayloft and to the side a long table with a red and white plastic tablecloth that appeared to be used for selling the farm’s produce. Beyond that was a clothesline filled with shirts, a couple pair of overalls, canvas pants and towels.

“We keep all of it in there,” Sarah said, pointing to an old refrigerator. She crossed to the large doors of the barn and acted as a lookout.

Jane checked the items. Shelves of milk, cheese, yogurt, keifer and eggs filled the space. She snatched up one gallon of milk, three blocks of cheese, two-dozen eggs and a quart of yogurt. Sarah handed her a burlap sack to carry it. Sitting on a table next to the refrigerator were vacuum-sealed bags of homemade jerky. Jane quickly swept up six packages. Once it was all secured in the sack, she reached into her wallet and handed the kid a hundred-dollar bill.

“That should cover it,” Jane stated.

“Just take it.” She gently set the baby goat down on the barn floor.

Jane shook her head. “Like your dad said, there’s no such thing as a free lunch.” The girl stood there perplexed. Jane knew she had to beat feet out of there quickly. “What do you like to do in your spare time?”

“Read.”

Jane shoved the hundred-dollar bill in the kid’s pocket. “That’ll buy you a few books. Tell your dad you found it on the road.” She started to turn. “Or don’t tell him,” she said with a knowing glance.

“Tell him what?” the girl replied, wise beyond her years.

Jane looked at the clothing hanging on the line. “What size is that shirt and overalls?”

Back at the car, Harlan and Jane dove into the farm fresh food with gusto. Harlan was thrilled to have his raw eggs again and slammed six into his mouth before Jane even had the cheese unwrapped. As a dedicated omnivore, Jane knew she couldn’t exist on just dairy alone so she plopped three raw eggs into a stainless steel coffee travel mug, added enough milk to dilute the yolks and swallowed it. To her shock, the concoction didn’t make her gag. And it seemed to work because she began to gather more energy. She pulled out the flannel shirt and overalls she stole off the line and handed them to Harlan.

“You need to get out of those clothes. They look ridiculous and they smell.”

“Yeah, and puttin’ a flannel shirt and overalls on a fat guy makes him look even better,” he sarcastically replied.

It was the first adroit comment Jane had heard from Harlan’s mouth and she couldn’t help but smile at his self-deprecating humor.

“What kind of trouble are we gonna get into today, Jane?” Harlan asked, powering through the carton of eggs.

She stared out into the fields that dotted the bucolic scenery. There was a sense of something close by—of family and home. But there was also a feeling of regret and unhappiness.

“What is it, Jane?”

“I feel that sadness too.” She turned to the dairy farm and wondered if she was still hooked into that child’s drama. But she wasn’t. The melancholy came from another place. It was tinged with loneliness and buffered by years of disappointment.

“We ain’t that far from the New Mexico border. Maybe we should get out of Colorado and head south? You still got to see your sister—”

“Half-sister,” she corrected with an edge to her voice. “And I don’t have to see her.”

“Sure you do. Just like you’re gonna have to call Hank,” he replied, chugging a cup of milk and wiping off his face with the back of his fleshy hand.

Jane pulled up the memory of the night before. “Where’s your notebook?”

He found it and handed it to Jane. Turning the pages, she scanned them quickly.

“What is it, Jane?”

“Just looking for something…” It was a stretch but she hoped it was in there. And it was, dead center, in the heart of the notebook:
IEB
. “Does that mean anything to you?” she asked him, pointing out the three letters.

“Nope.”

Jane checked to see if her computer had any Internet coverage but she was out of range. “International…Environmental…Bureau?” She mused, taking a wild stab. “Investigative Election Board…”

“I Eat Bacon?” Harlan offered. “I Enjoyed Beer?”

Jane shot him a tired look. She needed to let her mind percolate a little longer on what IEB might stand for.

“Anything else in the bag?” Harlan asked, pointing to the burlap sack.

Jane was still deep in thought as she handed him the sack.

“Oh, shit…” Harlan murmured.

“What?” Jane asked, quickly coming out of her deliberation.

Harlan handed her an eight by ten color flyer. “This was folded at the bottom of the sack.”

It was a flyer from the Las Animas County Sheriff’s Office from the previous year, promoting the appointment of Undersheriff Joe Russo. Surrounding his smiling face were four cheesy color photos that were supposed to represent his professional interests. “Schools,” “Community,” “Family” and “Neighbors” framed Russo’s mug. Harlan stabbed his first finger on the photo of a house in the “Neighbors’” shot.

“It’s the blue picket fence, Jane.”

“Holy shit.” She eyed it closer.

“Did you see it too last night?”

“Yeah.” It looked identical to what she saw in the vision. But Las Animas County was pushing one hundred miles east of where they were at that moment. Why in the hell this flyer was found at the bottom of a burlap sack in a dairy barn she just happened upon wasn’t the biggest question Jane had. Her main quandary was how they were going to get to where they needed to be without tipping off a cadre of law enforcement. Checking a beat up map she found nearly glued under the driver’s seat, Jane factored it would take about two hours to get to Trinidad, the county seat of Las Animas, if they took major roads and the highway. Opting for the most remote mountain back roads, she figured they would easily tag another ninety minutes onto the trip. After ducking behind a grove of trees to change into another pair of jeans, Jane secured the food in the cooler. With Harlan satiated in the backseat and snoozing under a heap of blankets, Jane turned the Mustang around and headed east.

They rolled into Trinidad just after noon. Jane hugged every single side street she could find, sliding between vans and trucks whenever she could to avoid being detected. She had no clue where this house was located but she figured it was close to town and in a middle-income neighborhood. She came to a crossroad and didn’t know which way to turn. Instead of locating a needle in a haystack, she was looking for a blue picket fence in a sea of houses. Jane stared at the flyer again. It was slightly blurred, but behind the house, she could see what looked like the top of a steeple on a church. Based on the point of view and assuming the steeple wasn’t Photoshopped into the image, Jane cruised closer to the main drag and found the church. But she felt exposed out there in her ice blue bullet and quickly diverted down several side roads that led directly to a small, neat, middle-class neighborhood that looked identical to her vision.

She warned Harlan to stay down in the backseat as she drove up and down the streets. After five minutes, Jane pulled over to the curb to check the location of the church steeple. Three houses up, a woman walked out to her mailbox. She wore a silky pink dressing gown rimmed with faux feathers on the collar and sleeves. Her long black wavy hair flowed freely down her back, in stark contrast to her exquisite porcelain skin. There was a vibe about her that Jane instantly recognized.

Jane waited until the woman returned inside her house before inching the Mustang closer. There it was. A beautiful vine of tiny pink flowers draped over a blue picket fence. Jane backed the Mustang up and parked it a block away in a strip of greenbelt and hidden within a tight grove of spruce trees. Without even being asked, Harlan offered Jane his wrist.

“Better lock me in again. Just in case he gets the urge to roam.” Jane clamped the handcuffs on Harlan’s wrist and secured him to the gearshift. “What’s your plan, Jane?”

She thought about it for a second. “I don’t have a clue.” Her gut starting gnawing, signaling her nerves going on high alert. She grabbed her badge and tucked it into her leather jacket. Reaching under the passenger seat, she rummaged around until she uncovered her Ruger .380 pistol snapped into its holster. Weighing fewer than ten ounces, it was the perfect concealed weapon and she’d looked long and hard before she found a holster that fit perfectly on her cowboy boot. After checking the clip and racking the slide, Jane attached the pistol and holster to her right boot. Harlan watched the whole thing.

“You think you’re gonna need that?” he asked.

“Remember me, Harlan? I’m that annoying boy scout with O.C.D.” Rummaging through the plastic bag from the previous day’s shopping excursion, she removed the blond “Diana” wig and slid it over her hair. Tucking her brown hair under the wig, she gave the short hairstyle a quick once over before turning to Harlan. “What do you think?”

“I think you look like my ninth grade gym teacher. And that ain’t a good thing.”

She walked down the block, canvassing the neighborhood continually like an owl on sentry duty. The closer she got to the woman’s mailbox, the easier she saw the name on it: Nanette Larson. Jane reached out and rubbed the three last letters, “s-o-n,” moving back into the memory of what she saw the previous night. Scanning the front yard, it was immaculate and filled with romantically inspired statues of reclining fairies, tinkling metal chimes and multi-colored metal globes that reflected the blue sky. Rose bushes, still dormant, lined the clean, brick pathway that led to the white clapboard house. Above the front door was a wooden valance of carved roses—another purposeful romantic touch. Putting everything together, Jane understood Nanette’s intention and the closer she got to the front door, the more she understood the woman who resided there. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes for a moment to get into the vibe and then knocked on the door.

It took about a minute before she answered, swinging the door open with gusto. “You’re so early, sweetie!”

The minute she locked eyes with Jane, Nanette’s visage went from false enthusiasm to trepidation. Her long black hair was still slightly wet from the shower and her face moist from the cream she had just applied. A sweet, aphrodisiac perfume of Jasmine oil wafted toward Jane. Romance and sensuality oozed off of Nanette’s body, from her triple D breasts to her delicate feet that hugged pink, metallic beaded slippers. Jane figured she was about thirty-two and in exceptionally good health. This woman was not the town bicycle nor had she been passed around like a Netflix rental. She was a stunning goddess who made every single man believe he was the only one.

“Nanette Larson?” Jane said.

She froze. “Yes.”

Jane quickly flashed her badge. “I’m with the local Sheriff’s Department. We’re investigating a crime and I’d love to ask you a few questions.”

Nanette regarded Jane with growing fear.

Jane moved toward the door. “May I come in?”

Nanette stood to the side but her reluctance was apparent. “I have someone showing up here in a few minutes,” she said in a quiet, nervous voice.

Jane knew whoever was showing up wouldn’t be there in “a few minutes” because Nanette had already given herself away with her effusive greeting. The woman was scared and it wasn’t because she was afraid of getting busted for her chosen profession.

The living room looked like an ode to the antebellum period. Lampshades were adorned with clear crystals, a fainting couch upholstered in crimson and gold threaded fabric sat by the ornate white fireplace while the walls were wallpapered in a soft pink fleur-de-lis design. Two purple silk folding screens separated the front room from what looked like a small kitchen. But based on the carpet wear, the permanent pathway led from the front door and into a side room that Jane assumed was the bedroom.

Jane stood in the center of the room. “This won’t take a long time, Nanette.”

She closed the front door and kept her back to Jane, as if she was contemplating her next move. It was obvious to Jane that Nanette was a gentle soul who didn’t want any trouble.

Nanette turned. “I really do have someone coming.”

Jane nodded. “Yeah, I know. You mentioned that already.”

Nanette tensely studied the floor where the sheepskin rug lay in front of the fireplace. “Coffee?” she suddenly said, as if the idea was original.

Jane realized that a cup of java would taste pretty damn good. “Sure.”

Nanette pulled her pink dressing gown around her chest, suddenly becoming chaste, and walked between the two screens and into the kitchen. Jane followed her. The small white kitchen was banked with windows that flooded the room with sun and warmth. A back door led out into a small grassy yard rimmed with planting beds and more metal chimes that swung softly in the spring breeze. Nanette crossed to the coffee maker where a full pot of hot java was waiting.

“You like cream in your coffee?”

“No. I take it black.”

“Okay. Then here you go.”

With that, Nanette clutched the glass coffee pot and spun around. Jane quickly ducked out of range right before she launched the burning brew in her direction.

“Goddamnit!” Jane screamed, feeling the sting of a few hot sprays of coffee hit her hands. She backed up, hoping to avoid slipping in the puddle of brown liquid that now covered the kitchen floor.

Nanette quickly reached around and pulled out a steak knife from the wooden block. She lunged toward Jane, screaming in a strange, wispy tenor. Jane easily blocked the attack by grabbing Nanette’s wrist and slightly bending it backward.

“Drop the knife!” Jane yelled.

Jane pushed hard on Nanette’s wrist, trying to get her to drop the blade. But Nanette followed through with a hard slap to Jane’s face with her left hand. Jane’s instincts kicked into gear as she forced the knife to the floor and slammed Nanette up against the kitchen cabinets and held her in an easy chokehold.

“What in the hell are you doing?!” Jane screamed, inches away from Nanette’s terrified face. “I just need to ask you some questions, for fuck sake!”

Nanette was breathing heavily as sweat beaded across her upper lip. “You’re not from the Sheriff’s office,” she stated in a muted tone. “I know everyone who works at the Sheriff’s office. The Undersheriff is my next appointment!”

Suddenly it made sense why Joe Russo used Nanette’s house to define “Neighbors” in his colorful flyer. Nanette was working under the Undersheriff. “I’ll let you go if you promise you won’t attack me!”

Nanette’s eyes filled with tears. “And let you kill me?”

“I didn’t come here to kill you,” Jane said, carefully removing her hand from Nanette’s throat.

Nanette rubbed the delicate skin around her neck that was quickly starting to bruise. “Then what do you want?”

“I need to ask you some questions…” she hesitated, “about Gabriel?”

Nanette’s eyes grew as big as saucers. “Please! I beg of you! Don’t hurt me!”

“Am I fucking stuttering? I didn’t come here to hurt you!”

“Then how do you know Gabe?”

“I don’t! That’s what I need to talk to you about!” Jane noticed the bruises getting more colorful on Nanette’s neck. “Put some ice on your neck, would you? I don’t want Joe thinking that your last client got too rough.” She backed up to give the woman access to the freezer.

Nanette quietly brought out the ice tray and pressed a few cubes against her neck. “Where is he?” she asked Jane, her lower lip trembling.

Jane suddenly felt very sorry for the woman. It was obvious she was fond of “Gabe.” “He’s dead.”

She put her hand to her mouth in shock. “Oh, my God. When?”

“About nineteen months ago.”

Nanette bowed her head, clearly upset.

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“It’s been just over four and a half years,” she replied, daintily wiping her tears with her ring finger.

Jane was dumbstruck. “Jesus, the way you’re acting, he must have made quite an impression on you.”

“He captured my heart,” she whispered. “He was a really wonderful man even though…” She bit her lip.

“Even though he did bad things?”

Nanette looked at Jane. For the first time, she relaxed. “Yes. Who are you?”

“I’m a private investigator. I was hired by his family to look into his murder.”

“His family?” she regarded Jane with suspicion.

“Yeah. Why does that surprise you?”

“He told me he’d had no contact with his family for years. After he joined Delta Force, he said they wanted nothing to do with him. I think they’re pacifists or something.”

Jane’s mind did somersaults. “Yeah, you’re right. They are pacifists. But they still want to bring his killers to justice.”

“I don’t understand how you found me or what I have to do with any of this.”

Jane was asking herself the same damn questions. But the clock was ticking before Joe Russo showed up for his “nooner.” “I need you to remember everything you can about Gabe as quickly as you can remember it.”

“He’d be gone for months at a time and then he’d call me and we’d see each other. He always brought me a gift from wherever he’d been.”

“Like what?”

“He brought me frankincense oil from Egypt once. Then there was the prayer rug from Iran. And the kilt,” she said with a soft smile.

“The kilt?”

“Yes. He spent a lot of time in Scotland during the last times we were together.”

Jane tried to make sense of it. Egypt, Iran and Scotland? “Approximately what time period was he in Scotland?”

She thought back. “Right around four and a half years ago, give or take a month or so.”

“Right around the time before he stopped seeing you?”

“Yes.” Her eyes drifted to the refrigerator.

“What is it?”

“Nothing…”

“Tell me.”

“It’s silly. He had cases of this special ale shipped to me from Scotland. It’s the only alcohol he’d drink when he was here. I still have the last case in that closet,” she pointed across the room. “And one in the fridge all this time, thinking he might just show up one day.”

“What made that beer so special?”

“He told me it wasn’t made with hops. It’s made from an old Scottish recipe where they use pine needles to ferment it.”

“Pine needles?”

“Yes.”

“Did he ever tell you why he drank it?”

“Gabe always talked about how nothing is what it seems. How that if everybody found out what was really going on in the world, it would blow every single belief system apart. He told me once that everything we cling to is really an illusion that’s manufactured by people who want to control us.”

“This is the kind of pillow talk you guys would have?”

She smiled. “Sometimes…” She bowed her head again, clearly still affected by Gabe’s death. “He was his own man. He didn’t answer to anyone. But more than anything, he didn’t want to be controlled, by any thing or any person. That’s why he told me he only drank that beer.”

“I still don’t get it.”

Nanette gathered her thoughts. “He said the first beers back in the 1500s were made from pine and other herbs that were…stimulating.” She suddenly looked oddly embarrassed.

“Okay…”

“Apparently, they made men more talkative…more energized…more sexual.”

“Really?”

“Gabe said that pine needles helped a man’s testosterone while hops made a man tired and passive. And he said it was all by design. I remember the story because he told it so well. He said that five hundred years ago, the priests noticed how aroused and focused people were who drank the pine needle beers. And they weren’t just sexually charged, he said, they were lively and a force to be reckoned with.” Jane could see that Nanette took some comfort in the re-telling of the tale. “But the priests couldn’t control them and the Church needed to take back that control. So, one day a priest noticed that the workers who were picking hops in the fields were always falling asleep and they were also impotent.”

“How would the priest know the workers were impotent?”

She arched her well-plucked brow. “Do the math,” she said succinctly.

Jane nodded. “Ah, right. The hypocrisy has landed. Go on.”

“I guess the word came down that all beer from that moment on had to be made only from hops. If anyone made beer with pine needles or other energizing herbs, they were in violation of the Church’s law and they were against God.”