by Lisa Jackson
They’d stood somber and grim-faced, most disbelieving, some obviously struggling to rein in their emotions. Shoulder to shoulder, they’d listened in silent despair as Brewster outlined what had happened to the man who had been the sheriff for the better part of a decade and how he planned to bring the perpetrator to justice.
“I want you to look through all of the case files where Grayson brought a violent offender to justice. Not only at the offender, but members of his or her family. We also want to scrutinize Grayson’s family and his financial situation, find out who would benefit from his death; who would want him dead. If you’ve heard anything or know of anyone who holds a grudge against the sheriff, let me know. Of course, every family member is suspect.” Brewster, who’d still been wearing a suit and tie, had concluded the short meeting with, “Let’s all say a prayer for Dan Grayson tonight, that God will keep him safe and that our efforts at bringing the perpetrator to justice will prevail.”
Alvarez had fought her own struggling emotions during the gathering, catching Pescoli’s eye. Her partner, too, had blinked hard, her jaw set in determination, her hands fisted, her lips compressed.
“Let’s do this,” she’d whispered to Alvarez before leaving to explain to her family why their Christmas would have to be postponed.
As unfamiliar as it was, Alvarez even prayed a little as she walked down the hallway to her office and automatically, in a throwback to her childhood, had sketched the sign of the cross quickly over her breasts. Her feelings about God and Christmas had been ambivalent for years, but now, as afternoon slid toward evening, she decided that if there truly was a supreme deity, today she’d ask for help. Any kind of help.
“I thought this was your big deal,” Jeremy said from her couch as Pescoli finally stepped into the kitchen of her house, her keys dangling from her fingers, her mind still at the crime scene as she relived those horrid moments of the attack over and over again. She really didn’t remember driving home from the station, was numb as she walked through the doorway to her house. “You know, a family Christmas, us all being together? I thought you were pissed that we spent last night with Lucky and Michelle, and then you’re not even here when we get up at the crack of dawn and bust our asses to get here. And when we show up, you’re not even here. No note, no nothin’!”
Her son was sprawled across the ever-shifting cushions of the fifteen-year-old couch and had only glanced in her direction as he played some ultra-violent video game on the living-room television. Bodies were flying, blood was spraying. In her mind’s eye, all she could see was Grayson being hit in slow motion, his body spinning, the split kindling erupting from his arms. “Isn’t that what you wanted? Christmas together?” Jeremy persisted, as Cisco, their mottled terrier, hopped down from his spot near Jeremy’s stockinged feet. “You were all about it and . . . Damn! I can’t believe I can’t get past this level!” Disgusted and angry, he threw his game controller onto the carpet, then actually twisted his head to glare across the room toward the kitchen while the little dog danced at her feet, barking and twirling frantically to get her attention.
Pescoli didn’t respond to either of them.
Her son’s face, strong and handsome, so much like Joe’s, drained of color. “Holy crap, Mom! Are you okay? What the hell happened?” He was on his feet in an instant, jogging out of the living room where the Christmas tree was listing badly near the old television. His face was a mask of concern. In a heartbeat he seemed to transform from a churlish boy to a man. “Mom?”
She must look a sight, she realized. She’d left her jacket with the crime team, in case the techs wanted to verify that the blood staining her clothes was, indeed, Grayson’s, though no one thought differently. Undoubtedly, she probably still looked as shell-shocked as she felt.
“It’s the sheriff. Dan. Dan Grayson.” She lifted a hand and closed her eyes for a second, only to visualize the horrid attack all over again. Grayson being hit, his hat flying, his body jerking. “I went to see him at his house and . . .” Drawing in a deep breath, she gathered herself. If only she could replay the events of the morning; if only she’d gone a little earlier, spent less time in bed or arguing with Santana, maybe she could have saved Grayson. Or maybe she, too, would be in a hospital ER, surgeons and staff desperately trying to keep her alive.
From the short hallway that ran toward the stairs at the back of the house, the door to Bianca’s room opened. She appeared, wearing a pink tank top and stretchy gray pants. Her hair, currently her natural black with a few streaks of blond, was twisted into an unkempt knot on her head and her ever-present cell phone was in her hand. Barefoot, she hadn’t bothered looking up as she was texting rapidly, fingers flying as if the fate of the world rested in her reply.
“Hey!” Jeremy shouted.
Bianca glanced up sharply only to stop dead in her tracks. Even her frantic fingers paused over the keypad of her phone. “Mom?”
Pescoli held up a hand to cut off any further questions. “This isn’t my blood. I’m okay. A sniper tried to kill Dan Grayson this morning and I got there just in time to witness it. He’s at the hospital in Missoula now and . . .” She was shaking her head, wanting to reassure her children, but knowing she had to tell them the truth. Her heart squeezed and she had trouble finding the right words. “It’s gonna be touch and go for a while. He was hit twice, once in the chest and then in the head, both . . . both highly vulnerable places and I don’t really know much more.”
“Oh, my God.” Bianca’s large eyes rounded, then filled with tears. “But he’s going to be okay?”
Pescoli wasn’t going to lie. “I hope so.”
“Jesus! Who?” Jeremy asked angrily. “Why?”
If only I knew.
Bianca ran forward and threw her arms around her mother.
“Hey, there . . . It’s going to be okay,” Pescoli lied, holding her. “Whatever happens, it’ll be okay.”
“No, it won’t.” Jeremy stood two feet away, glaring at her. She met his gaze over Bianca’s shoulder as he declared, “It wasn’t ‘okay’ when Dad was shot, and it’s not okay now.”
Don’t do this. Don’t engage with him. He’s hurting. Reliving his own loss. “I meant to say we’ll get through it, no matter what happens.”
“You really believe that? If Grayson dies, everything will be the same?”
“Oh, no, it won’t be the same.” She shook her head, felt Bianca’s tears on her shoulder. “It’ll never be the same.”
Pescoli called Santana less than an hour after explaining to her kids that the festivities she’d planned for Christmas would have to wait. She wasn’t about to rush through opening presents and a quick meal only to race back to the office. When things calmed down, then her small family would find some way to celebrate.
“So, are you calling me to tell me you’ve got an answer and we’re flying to Vegas for New Year’s?” he asked, sounding surprised and optimistic.
“Oh, God . . . no . . . I mean that’s not my answer, but, no, I don’t have one yet.” She took in a deep breath to calm herself. “Look, Santana, there’s been an attack . . .” Her throat closed for a second.
“An attack?” His voice was suddenly filled with concern. “What are you talking about?”
“Someone tried to kill the sheriff.”
“What? Grayson?”
“Shot him at his cabin this morning. Oh, hell, Nate, I saw it all . . .” She launched into the story, her voice wavering a bit, tears tracking down her cheeks. She hoped she sounded stronger than she felt as she related what had transpired, finishing with “. . . so after I got the okay, I left to come home, talk to the kids, and change.”
“I’m coming over.”
“No, not now. Everything’s crazy right now. I can’t even spend Christmas with the kids. I’ve got to go back to the office.”
She thought he might argue, but he understood; knew she wouldn’t back away from this kind of fight. “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice softening.
<
br /> “Fine.”
“You just witnessed—”
“I said I’m fine.” She let out a long breath. “I’m not going to rest, you know. Until the son of a bitch who did this is either dead or behind bars, I’m after his ass.”
“I know.”
God, she wished she could lean on him for just a second, feel his strong arms around her until she could pull herself together. Instead, she said, “I have to get back to work.”
He hesitated and she imagined the shadows chasing across his eyes. “I know. You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. Can I do anything?”
“Don’t think so.”
He waited a heartbeat, then said, “Look, Regan. I’m sorry. I’d like to help.”
“You do,” she admitted, her throat hot. “Let’s just leave it at that. Okay? I’ll call you later.” Before he could argue, she hung up, only taking the time to change her clothes before she left her kids with bowls of canned soup, crackers, and their cell phones in front of the television.
Cisco ran around her feet, sensing something was up. She patted him on the head, then called, “See you all later,” as she opened the door to the garage.
Jeremy looked her way. “Okay.” His face clouded, reminding her again of Joe and how much she’d loved him at nineteen.
Bianca didn’t lift her head, but she did mutter thickly, “Bye,” as she concentrated on her phone.
I’m sorry, Pescoli thought, knowing she’d disappointed them but aware they were getting old enough to understand that this year, Christmas would have to wait.
Hattie Grayson’s knees threatened to give way. She dropped onto her unmade bed and, with her free hand, held on to one post of the frame. “No,” she whispered, her voice a strangled cry as denial swept over her. Phone pressed to her ear, she said to the officer on the other end of the line, “You must be mistaken. You have to be.”
“I know this is a shock, but it’s true, Ms. Grayson. The sheriff was seriously wounded in the attack against him,” Detective Selena Alvarez was saying, her voice sounding as if it were coming from the end of a long, echoing tunnel. Hattie heard her heart pumping in her eardrums and, for a moment, blackness started edging into her peripheral vision. Not Dan. Oh, please, please not Dan.
“But he’ll be okay?” she heard herself asking. Of course he will. It’s Dan. . . .
“I can’t comment on his condition, only to say that it’s serious. He’s at Northern General in Missoula.”
“How serious?”
“You can call the hospital. They have more information,” Alvarez said. “I really am not at liberty to say any more.”
“But who?” Hattie asked, stunned. “Why?”
“We don’t know yet, Ms. Grayson, but we’re working on it,” the detective assured her.
Hattie slowly hung up, distantly aware of her twins, their voices rising from somewhere in the living room, on the verge of yet another argument. At eight, her daughters were starting to become more independent of each other for the first time in their short lives. No longer did they want to dress alike. No longer did they protest at being put in separate classrooms. While Mallory had begun to show an interest in dance and the arts, McKenzie remained a tomboy, with a love of sports and horses.
Like her father, Hattie thought, and felt an unlikely tug on her heart. Bart hadn’t been her first choice of the Grayson brothers, but he’d been the one she’d married. The only one who’d asked to marry her. And, of course, it hadn’t worked. Not even the birth of the twins had been able to stop that ever-steady unraveling of their union.
And now, Dan, the rock of the family, was fighting for his life.
“Mom! She’s doing it again!” Mallory screeched. Gathering her strength, Hattie walked into the hallway and nearly collided with Mallory, who was barrelling down the short corridor to tattle on her sister. She put on the brakes, skidding to a stop, then looked earnestly up at her mother. “McKenzie’s cheating.”
“At what?” Hattie asked automatically, then caught herself. It didn’t matter. “Never mind. Look, girls,” she said as McKenzie rounded the corner, “we need to talk. Come on.”
Herding her kids back toward the living area, she was struck at how much they looked like their father. With their curly dark hair and big eyes, they were little carbon copies of Bart, already showing signs of high cheekbones yet to completely form, a nod to some Native American ancestor in the Grayson family tree. While Mallory always wore dresses with matching headbands and shoes that usually sparkled, McKenzie wouldn’t be caught in anything but jeans, T-shirts, and cowboy boots.
“Cheater!” Mallory spat, the short skirt of her dress flouncing with each of her outraged steps as they returned to the living room and the mounds of discarded paper and ribbons from hastily opened gifts. Cards and dice from a new game were strewn haphazardly on the carpet, opened boxes with tissue paper visible were stacked haphazardly at the end of the couch, and a few more brightly wrapped boxes were still waiting under the tree, gifts for Dan. Hattie’s heart ached as she thought of him lying in the hospital.
Plopping onto the worn sofa, her arms crossed indignantly over her chest, Mallory was still irked at her sister. “See!” she said, pointing an accusing finger at the upturned board game.
McKenzie wasn’t about to take the accusation lying down. “I didn’t cheat. Mom, she’s lying!”
Mallory was shaking her head, dark curls bouncing as she pronounced, “The rules say that—”
“Girls, please,” Hattie broke in. “Let’s not do this, okay?” How to tell them about their beloved uncle? She usually opted for the truth, but today she just couldn’t utter the words that their favorite uncle had been the target of some malicious attack. “It’s Christmas,” she reminded them as they shot each other looks that could kill.
Mallory pouted, “But we were playing and—”
“Mal! It doesn’t matter right now, okay?” For the first time her words, or maybe her sharp tone, caused both of her children to stop their petty arguing to stare at her. “We, uh, we’re going to have to change our plans a bit. Uncle Dan can’t make it to dinner this afternoon.”
“Oh, maaaan.” McKenzie was clearly disappointed. She and her uncle had always been close.
“Why?” Mallory wanted to know. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“He’s been hurt.”
“How?” Mallory again.
“I don’t know a lot of details, but he’s in the hospital and I’m going to see him as soon as Nana arrives.”
McKenzie said, “I want to go.”
“Me too!” Mallory wasn’t to be left out.
“Not today. He’s not up for a lot of visitors. But soon.”
“What happened?” Mallory asked.
“As I said—”
McKenzie cut in, “Is he sick? Like when Nana got new ammonia?”
“It’s pneumonia, idiot!” Mallory said, her lips twisting superciliously. Her sister had never gotten “pneumonia” right and Hattie, finding it charming, had never fully corrected her.
McKenzie glared at her sister. “That’s what I said—”
Hattie stepped in. “Stop it! Right now!” Then more calmly, “And, no, McKenzie, I don’t think it’s pneumonia.”
“But he’s going to be all right?” she asked, nodding rapidly as if to ensure the answer.
Hattie could only hedge so much. She’d always been as straight as she could with her girls, but today, she was more careful. She didn’t really know the extent of Dan’s injuries, or his prognosis, so she thought it best to stall. “I’ll know more when I get there,” she said, checking her watch. “Come on, let’s clean this up.” She knelt on one knee and started picking up the cards. Looking up, she added, “Both of you. Not just me. Hop to.”
“But it’s Christmas,” McKenzie complained.
“That’s why I’m helping and not making you two do it alone. Come on.”
Reluctantly, both girls pitched in and not ten minutes later, Zena, Hat
tie’s mother, her arms laden with gifts, stepped through the front door. “Merry Christmas,” she called in her high-pitched voice. “Come on, girls, give Nana a big hug!”
The twins forgot their squabbling at the sight of their grandmother and not only hugged Hattie’s mom, but helped put her gifts under the small tree, lugged in two pies, a Jell-O mold of shimmering red and green, and a platter of cookies and candy wrapped in plastic wrap and tied with a gold bow. “For Dan,” Zena said with a wink. “Bachelors! They never get enough home-baked goodies!”
“I guess.” The mention of Dan Grayson was always a little tense with Zena as he had been married to her older daughter, Hattie’s half sister, Cara, though the divorce was long in the past. Never mind that not only Hattie, but Zena, too, rarely heard from Cara, the old tension never seemed to quite abate.
“What about us?” Mallory asked, eyeing the platter.
“Would I forget you?” Zena bent over and tweaked her granddaughter’s nose.
“No way!” McKenzie enthused.
“Right you are, but probably your mom wants you to wait until after dinner.” She looked at Hattie through the soft blond bangs of her latest wig. Zena had been battling cancer for better than half the year and though she was recovering well, her hair was still coming back. In the meantime, she wore wigs of various cuts and colors. “Why not have a little fun with this damned thing?” she’d said to Hattie once. “Chemo’s hell, don’t let me kid you, but I may as well see what I’d look like as a redhead or platinum blonde. I was getting sick of mouse brown shot with gray anyway! Booooring!”
Now Hattie felt the unlikely urge to fall into a million pieces. She wasn’t usually so wimpy, but her mother’s effervescence in almost any situation was such a relief she nearly started to cry.
