Blood in Tavasci Marsh: A small town police procedural set in the American Southwest (The Pegasus Quincy Mystery Series Book 2)

by Lakota Grace

  Aurora Remembers

  24

  AT TWO THAT AFTERNOON, the doctor welcomed us into her office. She crouched with a graceful gesture in front of Aurora. “What a lovely rabbit. May I pet its ears?”

  Aurora nodded, and the doctor's small brown hand stroked the fur. She seated me at the corner of the room to observe and then introduced Aurora to a dollhouse where she could play while therapist and parent conferred. Dr. Westcott had Janny sign the necessary permission forms, and Janny gave her the background about the explosion at the whiskey still.

  The therapist sat for a moment, digesting the information. “It sounds like what your little girl may have is selective mutism. It is a condition that sometimes occurs in cases of childhood trauma as extreme as what you describe.”

  “Does that mean she won’t ever talk again?” Janny asked.

  “By the time a child reaches teenage years, they can remember very little that happened before age three, and memories of any trauma happening in those early years would be difficult to retrieve. But she’s young enough now that we may have a chance to heal the emotional injury while she still remembers parts of it.” Dr. Westcott smiled at Janny in a reassuring manner.

  It seemed like a tall order, but I trusted the therapist. She’d done okay by me, and I sensed she’d be able to connect with Aurora.

  The doctor told Janny that she’d need to establish some mental anchors so that Aurora could feel safe during the session. “Can you think of a time before the accident when Aurora was happy and talking?”

  “She loved to sit in the rocker with her Grandma Ruby Mae.”

  “A great image,” Dr. Westcott said. “We can use that one. Now we need to bookend the trauma with a safe experience on the other end. Can you give me an example of a time after the accident when Aurora felt safe?”

  “I always sing 'Over the Rainbow' to her and tuck her bunny under her arm before I turn out the lights,” Janny said.

  “Wonderful. Does she have a special name for the rabbit?”

  “She calls it Sunny.”

  “Sunny it is. What we’re going to do is put Aurora in a trance.”

  “Does that mean you are going to hypnotize her?” Janny asked.

  “In a way, yes, using guided imagery. Children love to use their imaginations. We'll sandwich the trauma between these safe memories you’ve given me, and possibly get her to remember what happened during the explosion. Then we’ll plant some healing images before we bring her back to the present.”

  Dr. Westcott pulled a small rocking chair opposite her own chair. “Aurora, bring Sunny and come sit here close to me.”

  The little girl glanced at her mother, got a nod of reassurance, and sat across from the doctor in the little rocking chair.

  “Now, hold onto Sunny and just relax a little. Wiggle your arms and legs like me.” The doctor wiggled her fingers and Aurora copied her, giggling a little. Then the therapist induced the trance. Aurora's eyelids drooped and at last closed. Her grip on the rabbit softened. She put her thumb in her mouth and rocked the chair back and forth.

  The counselor's voice got softer and more distant. “Aurora, we're going for a journey. You’ll be very safe. You have Sunny along and your mother is in the room. Are you ready?”

  The little girl nodded her head without opening her eyes, clutching the stuffed rabbit, and stroking its ear.

  “First, imagine a big tree with leaves the size of dinner plates. Can you see that?”

  Head nod.

  “Now this tree has a hole in the trunk and you are able to climb inside the tree, very quietly. Go ahead and do that now.” She paused for a moment. “Are you inside?”

  Aurora nodded, shifting a little in her seat as she followed the counselor's direction.

  “Inside the tree you discover a set of stairs going down, down, down into the ground. You descend the stairs and they open onto a meadow filled with flowers…”

  She quieted to allow the little girl to make the imaginary journey. “In the meadow you see your Granny sitting in a rocker. She invites you and Sunny to rock with her. Feel the chair, rocking back and forth, back and forth…”

  Aurora's feet pushed her own tiny rocker in cadence with the counselor's words.

  “In front of the rocking chair is a TV screen. You’re going to watch a show about something that happened a very long time ago. You can make the picture change, anytime you want to, by just pushing a button. Are you ready, Aurora?”

  Again the little girl nodded, leaning forward in the rocker, her eyes still closed.

  “The movie is starting, at the distillery before the bad fire. You were there with Ethan and Lucas. Tell us what you see.”

  The whisper was hoarse but recognizable from a voice unused for years. “Mommy goes to find Grampa. I stay, be quiet, not get in trouble.”

  She squirmed in the remembering, and Janny reached to touch her daughter. The doctor intercepted her hand, put a finger to her lips to silence her so that the child would not be pulled out of the trance.

  “I didn't get into trouble, mommy, I didn't!” Her voice rose in an anguished shriek.

  “Turn the dimmer on the movie, Aurora,” the counselor instructed. “Is it getting smaller? It's only a picture, it can't hurt you now.”

  Aurora made a twisting motion with her hand and then pointed. “Otis!”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Bad. Turned wheels when Lucas gone. I try fix, but Lucas mad. No, no!”

  The little girl's head jerked from side to side and her arms gripped the chair as she remembered the fire and the explosion. “Lucas, where are you?” She cried out, as if in pain.

  The doctor intervened. “Aurora, push the button now! Turn off the show.”

  Aurora clicked her finger down sharply and gave a huge sigh.

  “The fire is gone, all gone,” Dr. Westcott said in a soothing voice. Aurora’s breathing slowed as she rocked in the chair.

  “Now, I want you to imagine you are ready for sleep and your mother is right here next to you. Nothing can hurt you. You are safe in bed with Sunny Bunny beside you.”

  The doctor picked up the stuffed toy where Aurora had dropped it and tucked it in under the little girl's arm. Aurora stroked it and lay her head down on its fur, the tension in her own body releasing.

  Dr. Westcott then reversed the original trance story, bringing Aurora up the stairs in the magic tree and out into the imaginary sunlight once more.

  “You’ll wake up feeling strong and happy, Aurora,” she said. “You can talk, whenever you choose to. You can draw pictures about the accident, anytime you want to. Do you understand that?”

  Eyes still closed, Aurora nodded.

  Then the therapist's voice got louder and more distinct. “I'm going to count backward, from five to one, and as I get closer to one you will start to hear the sounds around you, here in the room. Five… four…three…we're almost back home safe with your mother, Aurora. Two...one. I want you to wiggle your toes and fingers and, when you are ready, open your eyes.”

  Aurora wiggled her fingers and toes as instructed, and then opened her eyes and looked for Janny. She reached for her mother. “Mommy,” she said, in a croaky voice.

  Janny's eyes filled with tears as she pulled Aurora close. “Baby girl,” she said. “You did just fine.”

  Dr. Westcott cautioned that the ability to speak would return in fits and starts, but that Aurora had made a good beginning. She asked Janny to give her a call about scheduling another appointment after she'd seen Aurora's progress over the next week.

  Then, the counselor looked at me, as if to say, you’re next. I nodded, indicating I’d call her to reschedule.

  Janny wiped tears from her eyes as we walked into the sunlight outside the office. “Thank you, Peg. You helped this happen.” She gave me a big hug before she left for the Nettle home with Aurora sitting close beside her in the old blue car.

  I was shaken by the suddenness of progress in the counselor's of
fice and yet encouraged. Perhaps Aurora’s recovery would unlock some secrets this family had held close all these years. Her release from trauma might allow her to identify who in the family hated Cal Nettle enough to kill him. I brushed aside the problem of payment for the counselor’s session—Shepherd could deal with that, he was the senior partner.

  I stood on the sidewalk watching Janny’s old car disappear down the road and Dr. Westcott’s door opened once more.

  “Oh, I hoped I could catch her. The little girl left this.” Dr. Westcott held the soft yellow rabbit in her hands.

  I reached for it. “I’ll return it. Thanks for all you did in there.”

  “It’s not me, it is the healing universe. Something that you could use a little of yourself, Peg.”

  The softness I’d felt toward the woman vanished. The universe had nothing to do with it. I didn’t need healing. All I needed was my weapon back and I’d be just fine.

  Drawings tell a Tale

  25

  WHEN SHEPHERD WALKED through the station door the next morning, a cloud of fumes followed him. Sheryl’s old Volkswagen huffed away in the distance.

  “How's the reunion with Sheryl working out?” I asked.

  “She stayed up until three a.m. playing video games with some guy online. Woke me up with her chatter. When I put my foot down and told her to go to bed, she asked for black coffee, strong.” Shepherd’s expression was glum. “Didn't have any in the house, knows I drink green tea. So she left to find a Starbucks.”

  I glanced over at Ben, who smiled like a cat who's found the mother lode of cream.

  “Come into my office and fill me in on what’s been happening here,” Shepherd said.

  I topped off my cup with Jamaica Blue Mountain coffee and walked into his office. Before I sat down, I slammed the door to forestall Ben's finely tuned ear—he didn’t need any more ammunition in his quest to romance Sheryl Malone.

  “I don't know what to do with her,” Shepherd grumbled.

  “Considered the New Directions Ranch? Get her involved with the horses out there. They can always use volunteers.” Regina Smith ran a remediation clinic for troubled teens using Equine Assisted Therapy. Maybe a half-ton horse could temper the rebellious Sheryl.

  “Good idea. Maybe Ben could show her around the valley a little—Sheryl and I seem to be getting on each other’s nerves.”

  Or perhaps father and daughter were too much alike. I switched to business and told him about the events at the counselor's office.

  “Glad to hear that little girl is on the mend. I've worried about her in these years since the accident. The son, Lucas, knew the risks, but Aurora was only three or so when it happened. Just a baby.”

  I wondered what Sheryl was like at that age. It was difficult to picture the teen-vamp that so captivated Ben as an innocent toddler.

  “Thought I'd drop out to the Nettle place this morning and return Aurora’s rabbit,” I said. “Maybe catch Janny before she leaves for work.”

  “Good idea. Then you can go out and write a few tickets this afternoon.” Shepherd pushed his cane out of the way, opened his desk drawer and pulled out his crossword puzzle book.

  If I wrote any more traffic tickets, the Chamber of Commerce would tar and feather me. They said ticket writing was bad for business. Perhaps they were right. Didn’t like them myself.

  ***

  A COLD BREEZE chilled the SUV’s interior on the way down the hill to the Nettle house, and I rolled the window back up. It might reach high sixties by afternoon, with just a brush of wind to clear the air from the forest service burns.

  Wildfires had cut a huge hole in the center of the state several years ago. Now we had to contend with fires intentionally lit by range management crews on days when the conditions were right. After a few of these fires had gotten away from the Forest Service when the wind kicked up, they stopped calling them “controlled” burns. Now the correct term was “proscribed” burns. Either way, the fires filled our normally blue skies with smoke. The price we paid for living in the juniper-pine forests.

  When I pulled into the Nettle yard, the coonhounds set up a howl from the kennels in back. Ruby Mae met me at the top of the porch stairs, purse tucked under her arm.

  “You go talk to Janny. I've got business, important business with the Reverend Billy.” She marched with a determined step to her old blue Chevy, gunned the engine, and disappeared in a billowing cloud of dust. I walked over to the trailer and knocked on the door.

  Janny opened it with a hair dryer in her hand. “Just getting ready for work,” she said. “Come in.”

  I handed her the rabbit.

  “Thanks! I about didn’t get Aurora to sleep last night without that stuffed rodent.”

  The trailer she was sharing with Ethan was tiny but neat. Even so, quarters must be tight with three of them living there. I wondered when Janny would be moving out. She seemed pretty independent, not ready to go back to living under her mother's thumb for any length of time. On the other hand, not paying apartment rent meant more money for Aurora’s surgery. Janny seemed pragmatic about matters like that.

  “Baby is talking a little more, thanks to you,” Janny said. “But the big change is with her art work—take a look at what she did this morning.” She handed me a stack of drawings. “Be with you in a sec.”

  She disappeared into the tiny bathroom and a hair dryer shrieked on the high setting. I sat on the narrow couch and thumbed through Aurora’s art work. Sheet after sheet of paper was covered with pictures: Ethan and the puppies, pictures of her mother and of Ruby Mae.

  Then Aurora's drawings regressed to a more primitive style. The pencil lines became blacker, more broken, with images outlined in jerky strokes. Amazing, the likenesses she captured, even so. A portrait of her grandfather, Cal. Then one of a younger Ethan standing next to a man that had to be her Uncle Lucas. I studied the picture for a moment, two brothers now separated by an eternity.

  Then I examined the final drawing in the collection. It was creased and wrinkled, as though it had been crumpled and straightened again. A dark figure, Otis it looked like, fiddling with the dials on the distillery, flames exploding behind him. And a broken body at the side of the drawing—was that Lucas? Angry strokes had ripped gashes in the paper.

  Janny reappeared in her work uniform. “Is my name tag straight? I never can tell. One time I wore it upside down most of the day. Luckily a customer caught it, not my boss.”

  She patted her chest and then sat down and looked at the picture in my hand. “Momma was fit to be tied when she saw that one. Looks like Daddy lied about what happened. Howard's a snake, running away like he did, but maybe my Uncle Otis had more to do with that explosion than Howard did.”

  I considered her statement. Was Otis responsible for Lucas’s death? And if Cal discovered Otis was at fault, might Otis kill him as well?

  “Did Aurora draw any others?”

  “No, that was the last one. She cried and wadded that one up, so I put her paper and pencils away for a while.”

  “Poor kid. She's been through a lot.” I put the drawing aside. “Has Otis been around recently?”

  Janny hesitated. “No, haven't seen him around at all. Dogs tell us when anyone comes in the yard.”

  Which meant Otis was probably high-tailing it out the back as I drove in the front. But the man couldn't hide forever in this small valley. Somebody would spot him.

  “What did Ruby Mae want with Reverend Billy?” I asked, my voice tightening.

  Janny shot me a sympathetic look. “The man’s a rotten louse for what he did to you at the dance, but Momma trusts him. She needs a lawyer, wants him to recommend one.”

  I snorted. “I thought she had better sense than that. A lawyer for what?”

  “When we were treasure hunting, we found Daddy’s Last Will, hidden under the floorboards of the barn. Handwritten, which is still legal, they tell me. This homestead was his, left by his daddy to him, and in his will he gave it to Eth
an, Howard and me, divided three ways. He skipped Momma entirely.”

  “Is she upset, you kids inheriting like that?”

  “Momma knows we'll take care of her, that's not the problem.”

  “What is?”

  “Daddy left two wills, both dated the same day. The second will leaves everything to all his kids, including the soon-to-be-born Cal, Jr. I passed that copy along to Darbie last night. So I'm in Momma's doghouse, too.”

  “Ruby Mae's going to contest it?”

  “You better believe it. Claims Daddy wasn't in his right mind. Says nobody is going to take this place away from her family.” She scooped up the drawings and placed them on a side table. “But Darbie's baby is going to be my little brother. So in a way, Darbie's family, too.”

  “Would you miss this place, if it sold?”

  “If it meant Aurora's hand could be fixed, I’d do it tomorrow. But leaving might be harder for Momma. All us kids were born right here. Momma said she just popped us right out with Daddy pacing outside the door.” Janny laughed ruefully. “When I had Aurora, I needed a four-star hospital suite with all the known drugs possible.”

  Janny hadn’t ever mentioned Aurora’s daddy and I hadn’t asked. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring and it was her business, I figured. Janny’s method of childbirth was exactly what I’d choose, too, if I ever had kids, which I didn’t plan to.

  “Janny, how’s your mother doing after Cal’s death?”

  She was quiet for a moment, her face pensive. “Momma walks up to the grave every morning and talks to him. I bet he got a ration this morning after she found out about the two wills.” Janny stood and straightened her skirt. “Gotta scoot. They can't run that store without me.”

  I followed her out of the trailer, and she pointed to the barn. “Go say hello to Aurora and Ethan. They're visiting the puppies.”

  The pups had outgrown the whelping box. Ethan had broken it down and moved the coonhound family to a fenced-in area of the barn. Puppies shoved and pushed in a swirling auburn tapestry while Aurora sat on the floor creating barriers for them to pile over. Ethan leaned against a wall watching.