Protector (25 page)
Authors: Laurel Dewey
Tags: #Police Procedural, #Denver (Colo.), #Mystery & Detective, #Psychic ability, #Women detectives, #Crime, #Suspense, #Women Sleuths, #Children of murder victims, #Fiction, #Occult & Supernatural, #Espionage
“Hear what?”
Emily scanned the room and waited. She sunk back into the couch, closely nestling her body to Jane. “Nothing,” she whispered.
Chapter 12
It had been a long time since Jane dreamed of her mother. Twenty-five years had passed since her death and along with it, the distinct memory of her appearance and the sound of her voice. So on the rare occasion when Jane would catch a glimpse of her mother in a dream, there was a faraway, unfamiliar resonance to the experience.
The dreams were always the same—pinpointed moments in time that flashed like a video. Anne standing at the sink in the kitchen looking out the window. Anne hanging sheets on the clothesline. Anne sitting in a chair reading a book. Anne staring into the air with that trapped look on her face. They were crisp images that lasted mere seconds but conveyed years of emotions and an underlying deep sadness. The dream invariably culminated in the final moments of Anne’s life.
Anne Perry was propped up in a hospital bed that had been wheeled into the living room. Her gaunt, pasty white face blended into the dingy sheets that covered her body. Her sunken eyes fixated on a spot above her as ten-year-old Jane encouraged her mother to take one more spoonful of soup. Outside, Dale Perry shoveled snow in the late February shadows while five-year-old Mike played alone in the drifts of snow. Pavarotti sang “Nessun Dorma” on the radio that was sitting next to Anne’s bedside. There was a plaintive sense in the air that winter day. To Jane, it felt as if the tentacles of heaven were impatiently reaching down to collect another soul.
Even at Jane’s young age, she knew her mother was giving up and that it was only a matter of time before she would die. Jane hated her for that and yet, could not bring herself to let go of her mother.
Anne pushed the soup bowl away from her. “That’s enough,” she whispered.
“You gotta eat more,” Jane admonished her mother.
Anne turned her attention to Pavarotti’s tenor voice on the radio. “I love ‘Nessun Dorma.’ I looked up the translation of the words once. It’s a beautiful story. Listen to the way he feels the words, Jane.” Jane let the haunting melody engulf her. She could sense the passion and depth of emotion that ‘Nessun Dorma’ evoked. “Promise me you’ll look up the words in English one day, okay?”
“Okay,” Jane said, feeling as though ‘Nessun Dorma’ was becoming a backdrop for a tragic event. “Come on, Mama. Eat more soup,” Jane urged Anne.
“I’m tired, Jane. Bone tired.” Her mother’s voice filled with an undercurrent of rage. “I want you to really listen to me.”
Jane backed away. She knew what was coming. “Take a nap, okay?”
“Jane Anne Perry, come back here now!” Anne demanded in the strongest voice she could muster. Jane reluctantly moved back to the bed. “I want you to promise me that you will always be strong.” Anne’s bony hand took hold of Jane’s hand and held it tightly. “You’ve got an inner strength that you don’t even know you’ve got. Promise me you’ll dig deep and use it.”
Jane held on to her mother’s hand. “I promise.”
Anne tried to crane her neck to look outside but didn’t have the energy. “Where’s your father?”
“Outside with Mike.”
“Good. I want you to promise me something else. Watch over your brother.”
“Watch over?”
“You’re going to be the only one left who can protect him. He’s not as strong as you are. He’ll never be as strong as you. You’ve got to make sure he’s always safe. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?” Jane stole a glance outside the window at her father as he angrily shoveled a pile of snow and yelled over at Mike. She lowered her head. “Jane? Do you understand what I’m asking you to do? You do whatever it takes to protect him. Whatever it takes, Jane. Will you promise me that?”
“Okay. But Mama, you can’t leave us. I still need you.”
“I can’t do it anymore, Jane.”
“You want me to be strong but you won’t do the same for me! It’s not fair!”
“No, it’s not fair. But there it is.” Anne winced in pain as she grabbed Jane’s hand even tighter than before. “You promised me, right?”
“Yes, Mama, I promise.”
Jane watched helplessly as an enormous wave of pain entered her mother’s body. Pavarotti swelled into the climactic finale of “Nessun Dorma,” “Vincero! Vincero! Vincero!” he sung with an unsettling fervor. “Vincero!” Anne whispered, wincing in pain. “You must seek that in your life, Jane. Vincero!”
“Do you want me to get Dad?” Jane asked, terrified.
“No!” Anne yelled. “Pull me up!”
Jane grabbed on to Anne’s wrists and pulled her forward. Once her mother was in a sitting position, Jane quickly slid pillows behind her back to support her. “What is it?” Jane said, her voice shaking. Anne’s body went into a mild seizure as her eyes fixated on the wall. “Mama, please, don’t do this! Mama? Don’t do this!”
The more Jane pleaded, the more her mother’s seizure grabbed hold of her body until the spasms became unrelenting. Anne jerked her head forward, opened her mouth and projectile vomited the soup across the sheets. She started to choke and gasp for air when a surge of energy enveloped her chest. A gush of blood spewed from her throat, covered her white cotton nightgown and dribbled down her chin. Jane stood paralyzed. The smell was acrid and toxic. Anne held her arms out in front of her with her palms upward and whispered in a rattled voice, “Take me . . .” With that, her head tilted backward against the pillows. There was a futile gasp for air and then nothing.
The silence lay heavy in the room. All Jane could hear was the swift beat of her heart and the shallow breaths she was taking. Her mother lay frozen in the moment, arms against the sheets with her palms facing the ceiling. Her head bent back, mouth open and pooled full of blood; her eyes wide open and dead. Jane looked outside to where her father was shoveling snow, completely unaware of what just happened. It was at that point when Jane looked down at her shirt and found bright red splatters of her mother’s blood across the fabric. She reached over and gingerly tried to close Anne’s eyes. But no matter how hard she pressed her fingers against her mother’s rubbery eyelids, she could not get them to stay shut.
A few hours later, from her perch on the staircase, Jane watched the mortician and his assistants slip her mother’s emaciated body into a heavy dark plastic bag and zip it shut with a quick jerk. Dale stayed outside smoking cigarettes. After they left, the house seemed cold and full of strange echoes.
The graveside service was quick and over before it started. There were no speeches or tributes—just an abbreviated prayer from the minister and then they lowered the casket. Only a few of her dad’s fellow detectives were there—not because he invited them but because they had found out on their own and made the long drive out to the cemetery. There was no gathering afterward. No sandwiches. No soft whispers. No chance to catch your breath. Within days, everything that belonged to Anne Perry was gone from the house. Dale washed down everything with bleach—the walls, the floors, the shelves. “Gotta get rid of the goddamn stench,” he angrily announced. The house was sterile. Not even her scent was allowed to linger. “She’s gone,” Dale told Jane and that was that. Dale only took one day off work and allowed the same for Jane and Mike. There were homicide cases to solve and he was needed back at Denver Headquarters. Three days after Anne died, there was no trace that she had lived.
It was the end of Anne Perry and it was always the end of Jane’s occasional dream. When Jane awoke, a sense of coldness overcame her.
The early morning light filtered through the living room curtains, casting a creamy lemon glow across the couch where Emily lay fast asleep in the crook of Jane’s arm. Jane snuck a look at a nearby clock. 7:45. Too damn early. Her head pounded relentlessly—a physical consequence of cold turkey sobriety. She carefully pulled her arm out from underneath Emily’s head. The child stirred before going back to sleep. Jane sat up and rubbed her forehead, trying in vain to push back the pulsating pain. It was then that she realized her hand was shaking. She stared at her trembling hand as if it belonged to someone else. Finally, the tremor stopped. The day wasn’t starting off well. At least, Jane surmised, the disturbing, staccato visions had thankfully stopped.
She stood up, taking care not to make any sudden movements that would wake Emily. The soft morning light slowly expanded, illuminating the entire room with a gentle warmth. Jane canvassed the room, taking in every silent detail. She tried to imagine Patricia and David Lawrence sitting on the couch bent over a line of cocaine. The more Jane attempted to force the scene into her head, the more ridiculous it felt. She had never met Emily’s parents and yet, she felt she knew them intimately. They were still in the walls, the floor and the fabric of the house. Their energy occupied every seam. Most of all, their imprint was cast upon their daughter. It was a difficult feeling for Jane to distinguish, let alone explain to others. Suffice it to say that their essence lingered and that essence was not resonating a coked up persona.
Jane felt the need to poke around the room. She walked up onto the landing, brushing her hand against the desk that sat against the staircase. Something called out to her gut that she could not comprehend. There was a strange pull that tugged on her senses, like the eight ball dropping into the corner pocket with a resounding plop. It was the solution to the riddle. It was so close and yet so hidden. The more Jane tried to catch hold of what she was feeling, the farther it slipped from her mental grasp.
Her eyes came to rest again on the liquor cabinet across the room. She moved toward it, quietly creeping across the rug. The cherrywood unit held five shelves of every imaginable alcoholic beverage—everything from Dewar’s Scotch to Bailey’s Irish Cream. She scanned the bottles and noticed something odd on the E&J Brandy bottle. About an inch above the alcohol level there was a black pen mark that looked to be from a thick tipped permanent marker. A careful examination of a nearby Smirnoff vodka bottle showed the same type of black mark on the bottle. Jane scanned every other bottle in the cabinet and found the same markings.
Who marks liquor bottles? Not the drinker. The one who marks the bottles is the one who feels a need to track their partner’s habits. Jane always regarded the act as a somewhat passive/aggressive type of conduct. So what if you mark the bottles and you note a change, she thought. It just proves what you knew already. Then what do you do? Show your partner the bottle with the black marks and raise hell? What’s that supposed to accomplish? Jane scowled with derision at the cabinet. From the little Emily had said about her parents, it seemed that the child made mention of her father’s “smell of liquor.” That could only mean that the pen-wielding culprit was Patricia. Jane found it even more difficult to pin the label of “coke fiend” onto Patricia. A woman who takes the time to mark liquor bottles is probably not allowing cocaine in the house.
Jane started to turn away when she spied what looked like a plastic baggie protruding from a dark corner of the top shelf. She strained to make it out but between the lighting and various bottles, it was impossible. The front door was locked but Jane knew the key couldn’t be far away. As a teenager, she learned to first skim her hand across the top edge of any liquor cabinet. That was the first place where parents stashed keys. No luck with this cabinet, however. The second most popular place to hide the key was underneath the unit, secured with a piece of tape. Jane knelt down. Without her realizing it, Emily quietly awoke just as Jane was probing underneath the cabinet. Emily didn’t move a muscle. As Jane got up empty-handed, Emily quickly shut her eyes, pretending to be asleep.
“Shit,” Jane whispered to herself. “Where are you?” Jane wedged her hand across the rear left side of the cabinet and ran her fingers up and down the cabinet. Emily opened her eyes and took in the scene. Jane switched to the right side of the unit and continued to search. Suddenly, her hand hit a taped protrusion. Jane peeled the tape off of the object and pulled a key from behind the cabinet. She gently unlocked the door and slid her hand across the top shelf of the cabinet toward the suspicious protrusion. She grasped it awkwardly and began pulling on it. From Emily’s perspective, Jane’s actions took on a dubious appearance. Jane continued to tug on the plastic baggie until it gave way and she was able to remove it. What looked from the outside as a hidden baggie of contraband turned out to be a three by five inch size card inside the plastic baggie that outlined Five Handy Tips to Preserve the Fine Wood Finish on Your New Wood Cabinet . “Oh, for God’s sake,” Jane whispered to herself.
Emily continued to observe the scene, still unsure what to think. Jane replaced the plastic baggie, locked the cabinet and secured the key back into its taped spot. Emily decided it was time to “wake up” and let out a fake yawn. Jane turned around just as Emily opened her eyes.
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