Protector (30 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
Was this what it felt like to go mad? Was this what it felt like to be evil? What was the next step? How completely would the darkness embrace her and drive her deeper into the black hole? When would the voices start telling her to do things to herself and to others and at what point would she comply? Those questions ran through Jane’s mind as she sat on the couch waiting for Weyler. All she knew for sure at that moment was that the apple did not fall far from the tree. For better or worse, she was her father’s daughter.
The kitchen door that led to the backyard was still wide open. The wind and rain had subsided, replaced by a sinister stillness. Jane checked the living room clock and figured it would take Weyler about ten minutes to arrive. She looked down at the overturned coffee table and the scattering of Emily’s drawings and colored pencils strewn across the floor. A choice had to be made. She could turn the table upright, replace the drawings and pencils, close the kitchen door and make the place look presentable or she could leave everything as it was. What was the use? She was doomed anyway. She stood up and lit a cigarette and then for some reason, righted the coffee table. A few minutes later, she gathered the drawings and pencils. Another quick look at the clock. Weyler would be arriving in five minutes. It was like waiting for the judge to show up and declare your sentence.
Outside, Jane heard the patrol car roll down the back alley. She crossed into the kitchen and watched as the headlights bounced off the back fence before disappearing. Jane closed the kitchen door, locked it and started back into the living room when she turned back again. With an attitude of indifference, she secured the bolt on the door, took a look around the kitchen and flipped off the light.
Minutes later, Weyler knocked on the front door. Jane took a hard drag on her cigarette as she walked across the room and opened the door. Even though Jane was sure she had roused Weyler from a comfortable night in front of PBS, he looked as dapper as ever in his suit and silk tie. She regarded him briefly, saying nothing and walked back into the living room. Weyler entered, looked around the entry hall, closed the door and followed Jane.
“What happened?” Weyler said, concerned.
Jane couldn’t look him in the eye. Instead, she puffed on her cigarette and kept her head bent toward the floor. “It’s bad, boss,” she said, humiliated, in a half-whisper.
Weyler tensed. “What is it?”
“I . . . I fucked up.”
He closely observed Jane. “Did she reveal something to you?”
Jane let out a snort of contempt. “Oh, God. Are we back to that bullshit?”
“Jane,” Weyler replied, irritated. “What happened?”
“Why don’t you go upstairs and ask Emily that question.” She turned away from Weyler, taking nervous drags on her cigarette.
“I’d rather hear it from you.”
“No. You need to hear the whole mess from her.” Weyler weighed the situation before turning and walking up the stairs. Jane heard him knock on her bedroom door, announce himself, then open her door.
It was just about over for Jane. Thirteen years of hard work. Thirteen years of clawing her way into homicide and it was all going to be over in a matter of minutes. She heard the upstairs door open and close and the sound of Weyler’s feet descending the staircase. He stood on the landing, staring at Jane. She flicked her cigarette into the fireplace and turned to Weyler. “So, how does this play out?” she asked.
“How do you mean?” Weyler said stonefaced.
“What’s the protocol?”
Weyler casually crossed into the living room. “Protocol?”
Jane observed Weyler. He was far too calm. “What’s the Department protocol to determine my removal?”
“Removal?” Weyler said confused. “If I removed detectives for yelling at their witnesses, I wouldn’t have anyone left!”
“Yelling?” Jane was stunned and not sure what to think.
“Look, I’m not saying I approve of your shouting at the child for walking outside in the rain and tracking debris in the house—”
“Shouting at her? Wha—”
“Emily explained everything. She asked you if she could go outside and look at the stars. You said ‘no’ and she bolted off anyway. You ran outside, brought her back in, yelled at her and sent her to her room. Frankly, I don’t know why you called me.”
Jane was shocked. Weyler continued to talk but his words melted into white noise. She wandered across the living room and stood by the front door. Jane felt two eyes watching her and turned to the upstairs landing. There was Emily, standing in the shadows. She had ditched her soaked jumper, dried off her hair and changed into her pajamas with the star design. As Weyler’s voice droned in the distance, Jane looked up at Emily. The child stared at Jane with a look of utter forgiveness and unconditional love. Jane couldn’t make sense of any of it. How could anyone feel like that toward her after what she did? Emily ducked back into the darkness and retreated to her bedroom, closing the door behind her.
“I understand this job is taking its toll on you.” Weyler’s voice bled back into Jane’s consciousness. “And I’m aware that you’re not used to working with children. But you must be doing something right. The child obviously has kind feelings for you. She said over and over how it was her fault that she went outside and that she doesn’t blame you one bit for yelling at her. So, if that’s all you need from me, I’ll be on my way.” Weyler started toward the front door.
“I can’t stay here,” Jane said quietly. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“Jane, the child isn’t holding any grudge! Let’s move on!”
“Boss,” Jane reached out and grabbed Weyler by the arm. Weyler stopped, realizing she was serious. “I’m not asking to leave. I’m telling you that I’m leaving. Call her aunt and uncle in Cheyenne and take her up there.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes! Tonight! It’s a ninety minute drive. She’ll be up there before midnight.”
“Have you lost your mind?”
“Yes. Actually, I have.”
“No one is driving that child anywhere tonight. You talk about protocol? I can’t suddenly call up her aunt and say ‘Make up the bed in the guest room. I’m bringing up your niece.’ She is still in our protective custody and that’s exactly where she’s going to stay until we solve this damn case or I feel there’s a justifiable reason to release the girl.”
“Then take her to the foster home—”
“Jane. I have broken every goddamn rule with this case. I have stretched my leveraging as far as it will go. I am not going to be sashaying this child around Denver tonight and plopping her in some foster house.”
“Fine. Go out there and get Martha and tell her she’s spending the night on the couch. I’m going home.” Jane opened the front door and walked into the darkness, leaving Weyler alone and stunned.
Jane did not say a word to Weyler during the ten minute drive back to her house. The Saturday evening traffic was a bit heavier than usual due to the Memorial Day Weekend events. As she stared out the window, Jane wondered if Emily had crept downstairs yet and found Martha sitting on the couch. Martha arrived at the door with a bag of oranges and apples, saying something about “It’s my dinner” to Jane as they passed on the front porch. Perhaps Martha had made a beeline up to the child’s bedroom to soothe Emily and ask her in a roundabout way the real reason Jane left. But she knew down deep that no matter how much Martha pried, that kid would never say a word about the physical altercation earlier that evening.
Jane was staggered and frustrated all in the same moment. Emily purposely covered up the violent event to protect Jane. Amazing. But why? It wasn’t like they were friends, Jane thought to herself. There wasn’t any kind of connection. Connection? It was too much for Jane to allow.
Weyler rolled up to Jane’s front door but kept the motor running. He stared straight ahead, silent and etched with disappointment. “Okay,” was all she could manage as she got out of his car. He drove down Milwaukee and disappeared into the darkness. After fishing her keys out of her leather satchel, she maneuvered her way up the short walk to her front door. Once inside, she dropped her satchel to the wooden floor and stood in the pitchblack. Within the threads of darkness, she felt herself coming apart bit by bit. There was nothing left to her life. After all the work and the years of struggle, she considered herself a total failure. Singlehandedly, she’d destroyed herself and her life with such precision that to bring back any semblance of order was impossible.
Feeling her way across the living room, Jane stumbled into the kitchen and tapped on the light over the stove. She swung open a cupboard door, brought out a fifth of Jack Daniels, twisted off the cap and took a long swig. At first, the liquid burn was comforting; a warm reminder of what it felt like to be numb and pain-free. She knocked back another swallow. Jane closed her eyes and waited to detach. But suddenly, she felt herself choking. Seconds later, she started to cough. She got her head over the sink just in time to spew the whiskey down the drain. Her body arced in violent waves as she threw up every drop of Jack Daniels. Once nothing was left inside of her, Jane sunk down to the floor, bottle in hand. She stuck her finger in the neck of the bottle, saturated it with whiskey and sucked on it. But moments later, the same gag reflex took effect. Jane threw the bottle across the floor and stared into the semi-darkness. Was this the way it was going to be from now on? If so, there was no good reason to stick around.
Jane unsnapped her holster and drew out her Glock pistol. It would be so easy. Just wrap her mouth around the tip of the barrel, tilt it at a forty-five degree angle and pull the trigger. One, two, three. No big deal. No one to mourn her. Well, maybe Mike. But he’d get over it with his new girlfriend by his side.
Jane brushed her finger against the barrel of the pistol as an eerie sensation descended over her. She didn’t hear voices—it was more like she felt them. They were coaxing her, encouraging her, goading her into doing the deed. No more pain. No more torment. No more guilt. No more regret. Just lift the pistol and do it.
Do it. Go on . . . do it, they urged.
Jane felt herself slipping into the warm, distant comfort of the intensifying voices. It’s easy. Do it! She lifted up the Glock as the chorus of encouragement grew. Her finger touched the trigger. The barrel was less than an inch from her mouth when one, solitary voice yelled out among the din.
“Jane!”
She froze. “Emily?” she whispered. She turned her head to the sound of the voice, trapped in the sliver between worlds. It was too real, too bizarre. Jane rested the pistol against her thigh, her hand still clutching it. She sat up, squinting into the darkness around her. “Emily?” she yelled. Silence. She was still halfway outside herself but she was convinced she’d turned the corner on certifiably crazy. A groundswell of emotion overwhelmed Jane and her eyes welled with heavy tears. She grabbed her head. “No, God! No!” She broke down, gradually slumping across the kitchen floor sobbing and mumbling incoherently. The harder she cried, the more she felt her body being lifted into the air by the back of her neck. She floated high above herself, seized by the darkness and sure of her fast descent into madness.
Jane opened her eyes and inexplicably found herself sitting in the passenger seat of a patrol car. It was so real—so frighteningly palpable. Everything around her lay hazy as if a thick fog gripped the area. She turned to the driver’s seat and saw Chris. He was staring straight ahead, completely paralyzed. Jane tried to roust him to no avail. She realized her body was moving in slow motion. Jane reached down to the door handle and unlatched the lock. She got out of the patrol car, still feeling as though she were floating. Standing outside the car, the thick fog embraced her body. Gradually, Jane caught a glimpse of two headlights coming toward her in the distance. As the lights came closer, the fog parted, exposing an SUV. Her rationale mind told her this was a dream—albeit, an odd, altered version of the usual Stover family nightmare. Jane strained to make out Bill Stover, the driver, but the fog would not allow it. Finally, when the vehicle was about thirty-five feet from her, the fog lifted just enough for Jane to look into the front seat of the car. There was no driver. No driver and yet the wheel kept moving and the car continued to eerily creep forward.
Jane started toward the car, her legs moving like jelly. She heard the muted sound of fists pounding on glass. Suddenly, she heard the isolated voice of a screaming child. The SUV continued inching toward her as the pounding fists and screaming grew louder. With one quick turn, the SUV changed course, turning right.
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