Protector (49 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
“Are we done here?” Jane’s patience was wearing thin.
“Yes. You take care, Jane. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Yeah. Bye.” Jane hung up the receiver just long enough to plop another series of quarters into the pay phone and dial Mike’s number. The phone rang several times before someone picked up.
“Hello?” It was Lisa’s voice on the other end of the line.
Jane was befuddled. “I’m looking for Mike—”
“Jane? It’s me. Lisa.”
Jane felt a prickle of anger. “Lisa?”
“I’m so sorry about your father, Jane. Mike’s sitting right here. Hold on.”
“Janie?” Mike said, taking the phone.
“Oh, God, Mike. I should have been there for you—”
“No, no. I understand. It’s okay.” His voice was choked with emotion.
“No, it’s not!” Jane buried her head against the cold metal of the pay phone.
“Janie, please. I’m tellin’ you. It’s really okay. You got a job to do—”
Jane caught an underlying tone in her brother’s voice; there was strength in his inflections that she’d never heard before. “Shit. I can’t believe he’s really dead.”
“I know. I figured he’d never die.”
“Yeah.”
“When I saw him . . . Lisa and I went over there and, ah, we went into his room. He was lying there with no tubes or nothin’. He looked peaceful. For the first time, Janie, I wasn’t afraid of him.” Mike broke down. “I talked to him. I told him that I forgave him for everything and that I hoped he’d find peace.”
Jane couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “What the fuck?” Jane’s voice rose. Unbeknownst to Jane, Emily woke up and watched her.
“It was an important step for me, Janie,” Mike said, gaining control.
“Step?”
“We talked about it at the meeting last week. If you can forgive those who hurt you, you can begin to find peace.”
Without realizing it, Jane rubbed her finger against her scar. “Jesus Christ, Mike! You can’t forgive someone like that!”
“Yes. You can. You have to.”
“No! God won’t forgive him and neither will I!”
“I don’t wanna fight with you, Janie. Look, Lisa’s here. I’m gonna be fine.” He paused briefly. “You get the message about that guy trying to break into your house?”
“Yes,” Jane said subdued.
“Okay. I’m glad we could talk. You be safe wherever you are.” Mike hung up.
“Mike?” The sound of a dial tone droned. Jane stood stunned and then hung up the receiver. A few drops of fat raindrops fell on her face as she stared at the telephone. Within seconds, the clouds broke open and a torrent of rain poured from the sky. Jane closed her eyes and bent her head backward. Pellets of water bounced off her face and saturated her hair. She felt someone take her hand and rest their head against her body.
“Hey,” Jane said, looking down at Emily, “get back in the car.”
“You come, too,” Emily stated, sensing something was very wrong.
“Get outta the rain, Emily!” Emily didn’t move. “Go on,” Jane said.
Emily reluctantly headed back to the car. Through the rain swept front window, Emily watched as Jane walked into The Pit Stop and stood at the counter, pointing at an object behind the cashier. The cashier placed a bottle of Jack Daniels on the counter. Jane passed him the money. He bagged the liquor, handed it to Jane and she exited the store. Emily cautiously regarded Jane as she got into the car, stuffed the bag between her legs and stuck the key into the ignition.
Emily fastened her seat belt. “What happened on the phone?” she quietly asked.
“My dad died,” Jane replied, her eyes fixated on the bag of booze.
Emily was stunned. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Jane said brusquely as she backed out of The Pit Stop and sped down the highway away from Peachville.
Emily held tightly onto the chest strap of the seat belt as Jane shifted gears. The two-lane highway was pitch black and blanketed with puddles of rainwater. Jane reached into the bag and brought out the Jack Daniels, tossing the paper sack into the back seat. Emily quietly watched, her heart beating like crazy.
Jane drove another several hundred feet and slammed her hand hard against the dashboard. “Fuck it!” she screamed as she crossed over the center yellow line and brought the Subaru to a skidding stop on the left side of the road between two large trees. She turned off the engine and flung the keys onto the dashboard. With the headlights on, she got out of the car, Jack Daniels in hand, and slammed the door shut. Emily watched as Jane twisted off the top of the bottle and pitched it across the road. “Fuck you, you son-of-a-bitch! Fuck you!” Jane screamed into the darkness. Standing in the blinding glare of the headlights, she drank a hefty gulp of whiskey. Shaking off the bitter taste, she winced as the whiskey burned her throat. “You fucking go to hell!” she screamed, thrusting the bottle into the cloud-dappled night sky. She took another significant swig, allowing the booze to drip down her chin and onto her blouse. After another sip, she began to choke and cough. Swallowing hard, Jane fought her body’s reaction to the whiskey, drawing the bottle back to her lips. But before she could take another mouthful, her gut cramped and she doubled over onto the hood of the car. The more she struggled to control herself, the more her body kicked back. “Goddamnit!” Jane screamed as she hurled the bottle against the nearby tree, sending it into a million glass chards. She fell to her knees, planting herself in the muddy soil and vomited. Once there was nothing left in her stomach, she dry heaved for several minutes.
Emily opened her car door. Sloping her way through the mud, she made her way to the front of the Subaru. She knelt down next to Jane and draped her arm around her shoulder. “Put your arm around me. I’ll help you back to the car.”
Jane’s face was inches from the wet ground. Her head spun as the fight drained out of her. “Just let me be.”
“You can’t sit here in the mud. Come on. I’ll help you up.”
“Please, Emily,” Jane urged, “just leave me alone.” Emily leaned her head against Jane’s shoulder and gazed off toward the road. Suddenly, she saw the high beams of a car flash against the tall trees as it crested over the far hill behind them. She turned and was greeted with a flash of red and blue light spinning atop the car. Emily turned back to Jane. “We’re in trouble.”
Chapter 21
“Did you hear me?” Emily said, poking Jane in the shoulder. The red and blue police lights drew closer. “I think it’s Sheriff George,” Emily said confidentially as the patrol car pulled up behind Jane’s Subaru.
Jane’s mind was still somewhat far away. Almost in a daze, she caught a whiff of her shirt where she had just dribbled the whiskey. “Shit,” she said under her breath.
From the sheriff’s point of view, he saw a Subaru wagon that had been obviously pulled to the side of the road at the rapid rate of speed, thanks to the muddy skid marks along the pavement. The passenger side door was wide open and the two individuals—one, who was clearly a child—were bent down in front of the car and not responding to his presence. Sheriff George kept on the patrol car’s high beams and adjusted his glaring driver’s side spotlight onto Jane and Emily. He got out of the car, checking the license plate of the Subaru. “Hello?” he called out, walking next to the car.
Emily looked down at the muddy ground and the puddle of vomit that Jane pitched from her gut. She heard the sheriff ’s footsteps come closer through the sloppy trail of mud. In a desperate move, Emily grabbed her stomach and pretended to throw up right over Jane’s vomit.
The Sheriff stopped in his tracks. “Patty? What’s wrong?”
Emily lifted up her head, wiped her mouth with her sleeve and turned around to acknowledge the sheriff. “Mom,” Emily said in an exaggerated voice that had a tinge of overblown drama to it. “It’s Sheriff George.” With that, Emily turned back around and pretended to hurl more into the mud.
Jane was momentarily speechless by Emily’s quick thinking. “Hello, Sheriff,” she said, the words falling like gravel from her throat.
“What’s wrong?”
“We were at Kathy’s house,” Emily said, her head still bent over the puddle of vomit. “I think I ate too many cherries . . .” The Sheriff walked closer. Emily realized that he would smell alcohol on Jane. In a bold move, Emily flung her body against Jane’s chest, “Oh, Mom!” Emily said, grabbing on to Jane, “please take me home!”
Jane wrapped her arms around Emily and awkwardly worked herself up onto her feet. Emily stuck to her chest, refusing to let a hint of the whiskey aroma waft toward the sheriff. “Okay,” Jane said, playing along. “Let’s get you back into the car.”
Sheriff George reached out. “Let me help you—”
Emily quickly pretended to start vomiting again.
“Try to hold it in!” Jane said, patting Emily’s head. “Thanks for your concern, Sheriff.” Jane put Emily into the passenger seat, before heading to the driver’s side.
He leaned down and knocked on Emily’s side window. “You feel better soon!”
Emily looked up at the sheriff with the weakest expression she could muster. Jane slowly turned right and headed back to Peachville.
Jane pulled into their driveway and turned off the ignition. She sat motionless in the car, as did Emily. Realizing the gravity of what just transpired, she buried her head in her hand. “Thank you,” she whispered to Emily.
Emily reached over and stroked Jane’s shoulder. “You’re welcome.”
There was no way Jane was going to sleep that night. So, instead of heading for the bedroom, she propped up a set of pillows on the living room couch and sat watching television. Thanks to Dan, she could choose from the “semi-snowy” NBC channel or the crisp reception of PBS.
Emily started the evening sitting alongside Jane but quickly wound up sleeping with her head on Jane’s lap. Jane lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. A truck’s headlights slowed in front of their house. Jane leaned forward just enough to see that it was Dan conducting his self-appointed night duty. She noted that he observed the lone porch light on outside. Jane recalled that he suggested a “trouble code” of both the garage and porch lights turned on to signal his help. She shook her head. Jane was always the one protecting the weak and innocent, not the other way around. Sitting there with only the light from the television to illuminate the room, she was overwhelmed by the realization of her present situation. Gone were the nights of playing pool at RooBar, getting loaded with Mike and passing out on the couch. Her father was dead. Mike had moved on to a new life with a girl who seemed halfway decent. Whenshe took a step back and analyzed the situation, Jane concluded that she was totally alone in the world. As for her career, Jane had no clue where that was headed. Her job had become her identity and she worked hard to get where she was, sacrificing relationships in the process. If her career was going to hell, she had no clue where she could fit into the world.
With this self-realization, it was all Jane could do to keep an interest in the television show. It was the popular Antiques Roadshow. The series’ premise was simple: average people dug through their dusty attics and crowded closets for cherished knickknacks that hopefully had some monetary worth. The individual—usually with a hopeful glint in their eye—stood by while a knowledgeable antique appraiser discussed the historical and sometimes quaint background story of their treasures and whether they were of any great worth. After suffering through four original Norman Rockwell prints and a woman with a vase that she swore belonged to George Washington, Jane was just about to change the channel to the crop report. But the camera suddenly focused on an unusual desk—the same distinctive desk that Jane’s mother had owned and that also stood in the Lawrence house. It was the one Jane nicknamed “The Riddle Desk,” due to the hidden compartments that were only known to the desk’s owners.
The owner of this particular desk, a middle-aged woman, stood on one side of the piece while the antique appraiser stood on the opposite side. “How long has your family owned this desk?” the appraiser asked.
“My mother bought it before I was born at an estate sale. So, thirty plus years, at least,” the woman chuckled self-consciously.
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