Deadly Aim

by Patricia H. Rushford

  “I’m sorry, Angel, Janet is all booked up. Hang on a second though, she’ll want to talk to you.” The secretary put Angel through, and Janet told her to come in at 11:30.

  “You don’t have to skip lunch for me,” Angel said.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll grab a bite after your appointment.”

  After hanging up with Janet, Angel called her parents.

  “Angel, what a surprise,” her mother chirped.

  “How’s Dad this morning?” Angel pulled down a mug and poured a cup of coffee—inhaling the freshly brewed Italian blend. Callen had thought of everything.

  “He’s an ornery old coot, complaining about everything—which means he’s getting better.”

  “I’m glad it’s you taking care of him and not me. I’d never be able to tolerate him for that long.” Of course, as a kid she’d wanted to be with him constantly.

  “We do what we have to do, you know that. If I wasn’t here to care for him, you’d do it, and without complaining, I’ll bet. Family is family.”

  Angel let the subject drop and took a sip of coffee. Nothing like a fresh cup of joe in the morning.

  “Come by and have lunch with us, Angel. Your father would love you to visit.”

  “He’s bored, right?”

  “Yes. I thought maybe you could get him interested in a Scrabble game or something.”

  “I have an appointment with Janet at 11:30. I’ll come over later.” After I’m armed with ways to deal with him—and with you.

  Angel hung up, skimmed the paper, and went for a run. By the time she’d come back and taken a shower it was 10:00. She didn’t have to leave for another hour.

  She wandered around the apartment, feeling at odds. She still couldn’t get used to not working. Angel poured herself another cup of coffee and settled down on the sofa to read the paper. For once she wasn’t on the front page. But Alex Carlson’s obituary was, and next to his story was an article about the increase in gang activity and the use of drugs among teenagers. The article mentioned a group from a local church who had developed a teen club called the Dragon’s Den to give kids something to do on weekends other than having parties where there was drinking and drugs. Angel knew of the place and had worked with some of the other officers to deal with disturbances. The Friday and Saturday dances were well attended and the security tight. “Still,” the reporter wrote, “the drugs, primarily ecstasy, were easily accessible to anyone who wanted them.” Authorities and the club’s managers had no idea who was supplying the drugs or how they were being smuggled in.

  Angel’s boss, Joe Brady, was quoted as saying, “We want kids to have fun, and we had hoped a club like this would offer an alternative. Now it looks like we may be forced to close the place down.”

  The writer claimed the drug operation was all part of a Portland-based mob organization that had set up shop along the Oregon coast and other small communities, recruiting local kids to peddle their wares. The reporter went on to ask, “Had Alex Carlson been one of them?”

  So far law enforcement agencies hadn’t been able to connect the dots. The writer went on to criticize the police but neglected to mention that they were severely shorthanded because of budget cuts.

  Angel tossed the paper aside, wondering what Callen would think of it. Though she’d promised herself she wouldn’t think about the handsome OSP detective, she couldn’t get him out of her mind. She missed him, and the fact that she did irritated her. She thought about calling him to ask what, if anything, he’d determined about the Kelsey murder. She also wanted to know if he’d gone to the cannery with the lab techs to search the rest of the building. She had planned to go back, but too many things had gotten in the way.

  At 11:15 she slipped into her black windbreaker, grabbed her bag, and headed out the door. Janet was waiting for her when she got to the office. “How’s it going, Angel?”

  “Good. Like a huge load has been lifted off. I still have to deal with Billy’s death, but at least I’m off the hook where Dixon is concerned, and I know I only fired that first shot. The hard part is waiting for the authorities to find out who the second shooter was.”

  Janet nodded. “I bet it’s hard to stand by and let someone else investigate.”

  “More than I can handle at times.” She told her about the encounter with Broadman the day before. “I shouldn’t have interfered, but it’s almost impossible not to.”

  “That’s understandable with you being a police officer. You can’t just stop being who you are.”

  Angel nodded. “So true.”

  Janet smiled. “What would you like to work on today?”

  Angel frowned and explained what her father had done the night before and how his intrusion had made her feel angry and inadequate. “I used to adore my father, but now I feel uncomfortable around him. I mean, I love him and everything, but most of the time I feel like he’s disappointed in me.”

  “It’s not unusual for daughters to adore their fathers as children. Sometimes it’s just a matter of growing up and realizing that Daddy isn’t the hero you once imagined him to be. Was your father ever abusive?”

  Angel rubbed her forehead. “I never thought so. He was stern and expected a lot—especially from the boys. But there is something I can’t quite get a handle on.”

  “Go on,” Janet urged when Angel hesitated.

  “This feeling I have about guns. I’m not exactly afraid of them, it’s more of a dislike. I think it’s worse now, after shooting Billy.”

  Janet raised an eyebrow. “That’s quite an admission—especially for a police officer.”

  “Most of the officers I work with have several guns in their personal collection. All I have is my duty weapon—well, before it got taken away from me.” She sighed. “I know it sounds crazy. Like why would anyone who hates guns want to be in law enforcement? I forced myself not to think about it, and when I’d go out on the practice range, I found I could handle guns well. Maybe that’s because there was no threat to myself or anyone else. I was okay until Dani...” Her eyes flooded with tears, and she brushed them away with the back of her hand.

  “Dani?”

  Angel told her about the day care center incident and how seeing Dani die had changed everything.

  “How awful,” Janet murmured. “Of course it would change everything. No wonder you hate guns.”

  “But that’s just it. I don’t think that’s the source of the gun thing. When I was in the drugstore during the robbery, my chest got tight and I could hardly breathe. I remember thinking how much I hated guns. The incident with Dani came to mind, but so did something else, something deeper. I’m sure it has something to do with my father, because whenever I had to go out to the shooting range, I’d hear his voice in my head telling me to stop being such a baby. I’d like to know what’s behind all of that.”

  “You think maybe something that happened in your childhood brought this on?”

  Angel nodded. “Can you help me sort it out?”

  “I can help you relax. The answers may come or they may not. That’s up to you. Let yourself go.”

  After a moment of silence Angel said, “I need to confront him about something today, and I thought maybe if I could figure out... This is stupid, isn’t it?”

  “Not at all. Going back and remembering childhood events can help us understand why we act and feel the way we do around our parents. Tell your mind you need to know what happened to turn you against guns.”

  “And against my father.”

  Angel dropped onto the couch and fluffed the pillows. Lying down, she closed her eyes. Janet’s gentle music filtered into the room. Angel focused on the colors behind her closed eyelids, wondering how they came to be. Like rainbows. Her mother used to say rainbows were God’s gift and that they allowed us to see beauty after a storm. She’d always been fascinated by rainbows. Before long, she felt the anxiety drain from her body, and she said a prayer to God to help her remember.

  Janet’s voice was g
entle and rhythmic, and Angel drifted, letting herself float back into her childhood.

  She’d never been her mother’s little girl. Always hanging out with the boys and her father. While other girls wore pretty dresses, hers hung unused in the closet. Dolls she’d gotten for Christmas and birthdays laid in their boxes while the catcher’s mitt she’d inherited from Luke had worn thin in spots and looked as though it had seen a few dozen years of hard labor.

  How she used to love playing ball with the boys. Her brothers had been good to her, involving her in their games, except when they played with friends who tended to get too rough.

  Anna didn’t like her propensity for boyish stuff much. She was always trying to get Angel to do things with her. Poor Anna. She’d finally gotten the baby girl she’d always wanted, and Angel had turned out to be a rough-and-tumble tomboy.

  Though Anna had encouraged her to learn to cook and clean, sew and knit, she never forced Angel to do these things. Not that Angel didn’t have her share of chores—but if she preferred mowing the lawn to vacuuming, that was okay. Angel learned early on that her mother was easy to please. All she had to do was compliment her on her cooking, hug her a few times a day, and say her prayers, and Anna was happy. Or so Angel had thought.

  Pleasing her father was much more difficult. He could rarely get the boys to go hunting with him. They had other interests. Angel would volunteer to go, but he always put her off. She was too small, too weak, too fragile. But he finally gave in and taught her how to shoot. They started with a .30/.30. After firing the weapon, she hurt her shoulder from the kick and started to cry. Dad had no use for her tears, telling her that if she was going to make it in the world, she had to be tough. Her shoulder had turned bluish purple by the time she got home that day. Anna was furious. She wanted to put ice on it, but Angel, not wanting to be a sissy, shrugged it away. She wanted her dad to be proud of her, and he was—or seemed to be—telling people how she had hit her target after only a few practice shots.

  One weekend in the fall Frank announced that he was taking her hunting in the mountains. They would camp out in the wilderness and bring home a buck; the trip was all Angel could think or talk about for days. The first day was more fun than she could have imagined—they drove into the mountains, then hiked into the woods and set up camp. They’d laughed and talked and roasted hot dogs and marshmallows over an open fire.

  The next day everything changed. Toward afternoon her father became grumpy—so far he hadn’t even seen a buck. They’d seen several does though—beautiful deer that looked at them in surprise then scampered away. Twice her father had raised his gun then lowered it, saying he couldn’t shoot a doe. Angel was relieved; she didn’t want to shoot the beautiful animals. She began to worry about finding the kind with antlers. Then on Sunday they stumbled upon a magnificent buck with a full rack.

  Knots formed in Angel’s stomach. “Don’t shoot him, Daddy, please,” she begged. The buck heard her and disappeared into the thicket.

  Frank shoved her aside and lowered his gun. “Don’t you ever do that again or you can forget about ever going anywhere with me.”

  Angel didn’t know what horrified her more, the thought of never going anywhere with her father or shooting the deer. She prayed that the bucks would stay away so Frank wouldn’t shoot them, but her pleas went unanswered. Later on that day, he stopped and pointed to a buck standing in a clearing. The wind was blowing toward them. “You wanted to go hunting. Here’s your chance.” His voice was hard and angry as he told Angel to take aim and shoot.

  Angel’s heart raced, and her breathing came in quick gasps. She started shaking. But she forced herself to do as her father said. She ignored the warm liquid flowing down her legs and soaking her thermal underwear. She ignored the tears welling up in her eyes.

  “Come on, Angel,” Frank urged. “He won’t stay there forever.”

  Angel settled the rifle butt to her shoulder and looked through the scope. I have to do this. He won’t love me anymore if I mess up.

  “That’s my girl,” he whispered. “Aim for body mass.”

  No, Daddy, no. Please don’t make me shoot. Please! But she couldn’t say the words out loud. She couldn’t take the chance for fear her father would hate her.

  She got the buck in her sights and moved the gun slightly, aiming at a spot of sky above his head. She closed her eyes and fired. Lowering her gun, she felt movement behind her. She turned around and watched in horror as her father took aim and fired. The buck reared and took several wobbly steps and stumbled. The animal she’d been so careful to miss now lay wounded, his back leg twitching as his lifeblood poured onto the ground.

  “That was a good try, Angel.” Her father patted her on the back. “We’ll have plenty of venison for the winter.”

  Angel opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling of Janet’s office. She sat there for a moment, quiet, then told Janet what she’d remembered. “I was just a kid. He didn’t even know.” She frowned. “I should’ve been furious with him for what he did. But I never stopped trying to please him. In some ways I’m still trying.”

  “I may be wrong,” Janet ventured, “but I think that little girl who adored her father and would do anything for him was outraged. The anger you had toward your father had to go somewhere. You couldn’t let those feelings turn toward him. So you put them into the guns.”

  Angel nodded. “Odd as it seems, you might be right. I couldn’t be mad at Dad. I guess I’ve been holding all that anger inside all this time. I loved him too much.”

  Angel thought again about the way her father had shot the buck. No wonder she’d been imagining him in the background shooting at Billy.

  Her father had been on duty that morning, and he could have been in the building when she shot Billy. Last night at dinner he’d said something about watching out for her. He’d asked Eric to see that she got home safely. How many times had he felt the need to back her up and make sure she didn’t get hurt? She’d never thought much about it before, but officers seldom had partners anymore. Had her father insisted Joe put Eric and Angel together to protect her?

  Had he been the second shooter?

  As Angel drove away from Janet’s office, she wondered how she would go about asking her father if he’d been at the cannery the morning she shot Billy. He’d been in the area; she was certain of that, since she’d seen his patrol car.

  She could clearly imagine him standing behind her, firing the second two shots. But if he’d done that, why not tell the truth about it?

  Because he knew how I’d react.

  Angel mulled over what she would say to her father. Should she work up to it or come right out and ask?

  When she got to her parents’ house, she walked in without knocking. As usual, she could smell something yummy cooking in the kitchen.

  Frank was sitting in the recliner, his feet up, his eyes closed, the television on. A sports announcer sounded excited. “Mariners get the Yankees to hit into a rare triple play. Mariners win three to two over the Yankees!”

  “Dad?” she said softly. He didn’t stir. His mouth hung open as he snuffled on an exhale. She decided not to disturb him and wondered if it would be wise to confront him at all.

  She wandered into the kitchen and lifted the lid on a simmering pot of what looked like a cauliflower and tomato stew. She inhaled deeply, reminding her stomach it hadn’t eaten anything substantial all morning. Off to the left of the stove sat a basket of freshly baked scones. Angel snatched one and headed out to the backyard, where her mother was pulling weeds from her neatly manicured garden.

  The house was well back from the ocean. Still, sitting on a hill as it did, it offered a magnificent view of the coastline. She stood there for a while, eating the cranberry scone and watching the water roll in and out. Up near the high tide line she could see the ringed form of a crab pot. A group of seagulls congregated together, looking as if they were having some important meeting.

  Her mother had her back to the house
and couldn’t see Angel. She stood and lifted her knee pad, placing it a couple feet from where it had been. Anna dropped onto the pad again and started digging around one of her lavender plants.

  When Angel finished the scone, she hunkered down beside her mother and pulled up a clump of grass.

  “You should be wearing gloves.” Anna shoved her spade into the soil and uprooted a dandelion. “You’ll ruin your nails.”

  Angel ignored the comment. She’d never worried much about manicures or nail polish. She kept her nails trimmed short and tidy. “You’ve gotten a lot done. Looks like you’ve been out here a while.”

  “Mmm. It was either come out here and yank weeds or murder your father.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  Anna sat back on her ankles. “He’s at that stage where he’s feeling better but still restricted. It’s frustrating for him.”

  “This is the first time he’s ever been really sick.” Angel found herself defending him. “Must be scary.”

  “For both of us.” Anna stood, moved her knee pad over to the next section, and began digging again. “I suppose I should get lunch together. How was he when you came through?”

  “Sleeping. Snoring. He’s okay.”

  Moisture seeped into Angel’s jeans where her knees sank into the deep, lush grass.

  “There’s another pad in the shed.” Her mother nodded toward the small building that housed the miscellaneous garden tools and supplies.

  “I know.” Angel rose and dutifully made her way up the path to the shed. The pad was hanging on a peg. She grabbed a pair of gloves from the basket on one of the shelves. Looking around the well-organized room, she couldn’t help but smile. Martha Stewart had nothing on Anna Delaney.

  When she set the pad down near some weeds, Anna looked up and smiled. Angel half expected her to ask why she’d come, but she didn’t. Angel decided to tell her. “I had a session with Janet this morning.”