by J W Becton
Ted was an ass. He’d made investigations needlessly difficult, and, frankly, he deserved to have his smarminess made public. But was that the person I wanted to be?
Did I really want to commit another crime to lighten the repercussions of my original one?
After all, I stole evidence. I might have ruined the state’s ability to send a rapist to jail. Because of me, a guilty man might go free and harm more girls.
As I looked at Ted—at the real person I’d be manipulating—I knew I couldn’t do it.
I’d be doing the wrong thing for the right reasons. I’d be thwarting injustice with more injustice.
I couldn’t do that again.
Not even if it saved me.
Thirty-three
I returned the folder to my workbag and zipped it securely inside.
Feeling utterly defeated, I rose, and Ted mimicked my action.
Time seemed to slow now that I had made my decision.
This was the end.
“You use your personal weapon, but,” Ted began, his tone filled with what I interpreted as doom, “I’ll have to ask for your badge.”
I nodded slowly and lifted it from my belt. I took one last look at its gleaming surface before handing it to Ted.
“I’m sorry it had to be like this,” he said.
“Me too,” I agreed.
My mind refused to form more words, so I turned and hurried out the office door. I made it a few paces down the hall before reality caught up and stopped me cold.
Suddenly dizzy and overwhelmed, I slumped against the nearest wall and stared at the carpet.
It was over. I’d had that one last card to play, and I’d decided not to use it.
I was out of options.
Without Ted on my side, I would probably become a cautionary tale. Law enforcement training classes would use me as an example of what happened when a good cop took justice into her own hands.
And I couldn’t blame them.
After all, it appeared that even my boss suspected I was tampering with evidence and falsely arresting criminals on a regular basis. Even though no other criminals could prove that I had acted unlawfully, they would all feel compelled to give it a try. I’d be tied up in courts for the rest of my natural life, not to mention the fact that some of the people I’d arrested were dangerous psychopaths who shouldn’t ever see the light of day again.
I pushed past my shock and headed to my office, where I dropped my bag on the guest chair and got to work packing up my stuff. I grabbed an empty file box from the corner and began randomly throwing personal items into it.
Packing my belongings felt like the thing to do while I tried to figure out the next step.
I tossed some bottled water and a half-empty container of aspirin into the box. The small physical effort felt good. I was doing something, at least. So I really got into it.
I dumped my radio into the box sideways, right on top of the bottles, the cord hanging limply over the edge. At that point, what did it matter if I did a good job packing? Doom stood upon me with heavy, booted feet and ground me under its heel for good measure.
Nothing could be done to save my law enforcement career if the political power players decided to make an example of me. I would be held up as a dirty, amoral officer if that’s how they wanted to spin it.
Speaking of spin, I knew I should probably call Henry Martling and let him know of the new developments so he could prepare my defense.
God, I hated this.
I kicked the sheet metal at the bottom of my desk, enjoying both the pain I felt and the resounding thud that echoed through the room.
None of this was supposed to happen. I had always tried to do the right thing. I had the perfect ammo to use against Ted, and my conscience wouldn’t let me.
I was a good person, darn it, and the truth was supposed to set me free. Right?
Maybe the truth sets other people free, but somehow it got me in deeper trouble.
I picked up the family photograph that sat on the corner of my desk. It had been there so long that I barely looked at it anymore.
“Us Before”: that would have been the title. The four of us were happy and smiling and together.
I stood there frowning for a moment. This picture explained why I’d done what I did. But, knowing what a disaster my life would become as a result, would I do it again if given the choice?
Staring at my family’s happy faces, I pondered that question for a long time. Then, a blinking light caught my attention. My eyes focused on my desk phone. The little red light blinked insistently. I had a message.
Correction: Special Agent Jackson had a message. I was no longer that person.
Still, the light blinked.
It could be important.
Maybe it was the hospital calling about Blissett. Or perhaps Vincent had found the source of the leak at the courthouse.
I slipped the framed photo carefully into the box and picked up the phone.
Surprisingly, the message was from gentleman Jacob Dawe, PI.
“Special Agent Jackson,” he said to my voicemail, “I found the video footage that I retained on Randy Blissett. I know how he did it, how he got away with the fraud all these years. I have proof. And I know why he’s been so hard to catch.”
He paused and then added, “That’s all I’m comfortable saying on an unsecured phone line.”
I dialed Vincent’s number, but he didn’t answer, so I forwarded Dawe’s message to Vincent’s phone. He should be the one to pursue this. After all, I was fired.
I stood there, phone in hand. I realized that Vincent was busy handling my business, and there was no one at the DOI to cover for him. No one but me.
Plus, I hated leaving the Blissett case unfinished. I couldn’t shake the vision of the poor man mutilating himself. Why had he done it? Dawe claimed to know.
My every instinct screamed that Randy Blissett needed help quickly. Suicide might be his next action if someone didn’t step in.
And who was going to do that?
I was the only person who might be able to help Blissett.
Could Dawe’s information unlock the mystery? Would it explain what drove Blissett to cut off his own limb? Was it the key to helping him?
I sighed. I was emotionally drained, physically exhausted, and running on pure adrenaline, but I couldn’t let this go.
“Fine,” I said to no one in particular before picking up the phone and calling Dawe’s office. I arranged the meeting with his office assistant, grabbed my box and bag, and then strode out of the DOI for the final time.
Technically, I was about to break the law again, but at this point, I really didn’t care.
Thirty-four
Julia Jackson walked into the watcher’s office looking like hell. Having sent Mrs. Marston home early, he met her at the door personally, assessing her as she approached. Hair escaped from her ponytail, but not in a sexy, supermodel sort of way. Instead, the wisps frizzed around her face, framing a pair of shadowed, red-rimmed eyes. Her clothes were a rumpled mess, and again, not in that sexy way.
She looked like she’d been rode hard and put up wet.
Perfect.
Dawe came forward and took her gently by the elbow, offering what he hoped was a comforting human touch.
“Hard morning, Special Agent Jackson?” he purred.
“You have no idea,” she said, sounding as exhausted as she looked.
Actually, he knew almost exactly what kind of day she’d had. He had set the chain of events in motion, but he made some consoling noises as he escorted her down the creaking hallway to his office and gestured to the guest chair.
“Have a seat,” he said. “Can I get you a drink? Coffee maybe?”
Julia sank into the chair so gratefully that he almost expected her to sigh in relief. She eyed him, brows drawn downward as if she were trying to remember what coffee was.
“Coffee. That would be nice,” she said, sounding a bit dreamy.
&n
bsp; Crossing to the small beverage station behind her, he poured her a special cup.
“I don’t have much time or energy, so tell me what you found about Blissett.”
Dawe handed her the mug of steaming coffee and watched as she pursed her lips to blow at it. He took a sip from his mug as a subtle sign of encouragement.
She raised her cup again, watching him over the rim, but didn’t drink.
“Hello?” she said, sounding petulant. “Your so-called proof?”
“Oh, right. I’ve got the video I told you about, but I think you’ll find his psychiatric profile more interesting.”
“A psych profile?” she asked, sitting up straighter. “How did you get your hands on that? Or do I want to know?”
Dawe went back behind his desk and dug around for a few moments, hoping to kill time and let the coffee cool enough for her to drink. He kept an eye on her. His hesitation seemed to be making her antsy, so he pushed a folder across his desk.
She plunked the mug beside the folder and began flipping through the papers.
“Care to point me in a specific direction here?” Then, reading from the page, she said, “Agoraphobia? That can’t be right. He goes outside in his backyard all the time.”
“I know,” Dawe said. “At first, it didn’t make sense to me either. I asked around. Agoraphobia can show up differently in different people. Blissett is okay in his own fenced yard, but not anywhere else.”
Jackson pondered that for a moment, and she seemed to make a few connections.
“Where did you get this information?” she asked. “You obtained it illegally, didn’t you? That’s why it isn’t part of the DOI’s file on Blissett?”
“I thought you didn’t want to know how I got it.” He shrugged, offering her an innocent grin.
She scowled back.
He had actually bribed a psychiatrist friend of his to get the diagnostic notes, but as for why the information was not part of the DOI’s records, he couldn’t be certain.
“This doesn’t make sense,” she said, screwing up her face in confusion. “Maybe Blissett didn’t claim the psychiatrist visits on his insurance, and that’s why we don’t have a record. Either way, I’ll need to take this with me.”
Dawe couldn’t allow her to leave yet, so he slipped the folder out of her grip and gave her what he hoped was a dashing smile.
“I’ll make you a copy. You sit down and finish your coffee, and I’ll be right back.”
Thirty-five
I watched Dawe leave the office and wondered why he had called me out of the blue with a tip when he didn’t even have a copy of the document ready for me.
But I couldn’t help feeling grateful for the information. Everything about Blissett seemed to make sense now. Agoraphobia explained everything. If he couldn’t leave his house or yard without feeling extreme anxiety, then it would be difficult for investigators to get evidence that his back was no longer troubling him. It also explained why he continued to claim workers’ comp. He simply wouldn’t be able to function in his old job if he could barely leave home.
I also understood his nervousness and reluctance to leave the safety of the fence when Mrs. Twilley and Sydney had caused their ruckus. And it went a long way in explaining why Blissett had become desperate enough to attempt to sever his own hand and then objected to being taken to the hospital.
Poor guy. He was in an impossible situation. He couldn’t work, and yet he had to pay alimony, child support, and his own bills.
I picked up the mug, blew on the coffee, and took a sip. It tasted like what I would expect from a bachelor with little coffee-making prowess: amazingly bitter, even though the beverage was obviously 50 percent sugar and creamer. I glanced around the office, glad I had come.
Blissett needed help, and even though it wasn’t my job anymore, I was going to make sure he got it.
Once I had the papers, I would hand them off to Vincent, wherever he was. He would handle it.
I glanced over my shoulder, hoping Dawe would hurry back so I could go home, get in bed, snuggle with Maxwell, and cry myself to sleep.
I sagged in the office chair, polishing off about half the cup of coffee in a long drag in the hopes that the caffeine would revive my sallow spirit.
The rhythmic whir and thump of the copier filtered down the hallway. The sound lulled me, and I gripped the warm mug in my hands, feeling odd, neither comforted nor energized.
None of my problems vanished, but the longer I sat in that chair, the less I seemed to care. Or the less I seemed to feel. Maybe that was it.
I was numb: my mind, legs, arms, fingers, lips, everything.
I’d just been fired from a job I always claimed wasn’t my true calling, and yet here I was still doing that very job! I would never work as a cop again after the state got through with me. And I might go to jail. My family life sucked, and my best friends were keeping their distance for their own self-preservation. Not that I could blame any of them for their reactions.
I was more trouble than I was worth. I’d made their lives more difficult, and all I’d ever wanted to do was make things better.
I was such a failure. I was great at being a failure, actually. Probably one of the best failures ever.
Because of me, a rapist might walk free, not to mention the fact that every case I had ever investigated could be called into question.
Just the thought that everything I’d done to help people, to make Mercer safer, could be negated in one fell swoop made my heart race and my mouth go dry.
Maybe it was the caffeine.
I yawned and glanced over my shoulder again. Everything was still now that the copier was silent.
Where was Dawe with the papers?
I wanted to go home, get busy on those crying and sleeping plans.
I put my lips on the rim of the mug again and paused. Something was off here.
Dawe had been gone an awfully long time to make a freaking photocopy, and he’d left me with instructions to drink my coffee. Now I felt tired, but my heart was beating about a zillion miles per hour and my mouth was dry.
What the hell?
I glared at the mug. Maybe now that I thought about it, the flavor seemed off. Far too bitter. I’d chalked it up to the fact that the guy didn’t know how to make a decent cup of joe.
But had the bastard slipped me a roofie? Or had I really lost my mind?
Holy crap.
I stood and crossed to the wet bar, mug in hand, to rummage around and see if I could find what he’d laced the beverage with. No luck. I sniffed the drink. Yeah, it was obvious now that he was doping me.
My mind flashed back to the little girl that Michael Lacarova had drugged and stuffed in a trunk. Was this how she had felt? Woozy and wobbly and scared?
Well, I was no little girl. I could fight back. This asshole wasn’t going to get away with drugging me if I had anything to say about it. I didn’t have my evidence collection kit with me, so I dumped the remaining half cup of coffee down the sink and wrapped the mug in a clean paper towel, depositing it in my bag.
Not sure what was coursing through my system, I decided to get outside in public and lock myself in my car, call Vincent, and wait for him to come get me. Then, if I were still conscious, I would watch him kick Dawe’s ass before heading to the hospital.
I wobbled again, gripping the edge of the counter for support. I needed to hurry. I was feeling less steady by the second. I wasn’t safe here.
I spun and came face to face with Dawe.
His fist blurred in front of me, and then everything went black.
Orange.
I saw orange in a shade even more out-of-date than most of my mother’s wardrobe.
But weren’t my eyes closed?
I tried to open them but couldn’t seem to manage more than a blink, and I moaned at the effort it cost me.
My mother’s voice echoed through my head. “Finally waking up? Good. We’ve got things to do.”
I groaned.
When I finally managed to crack an eye open, green light flooded in.
Wasn’t it orange a minute ago?
I turned over, and both my legs cramped as if I’d been in a confined space for a long time. I curled up automatically, and my eyes snapped shut again.
When the pain passed and I could fully open my eyes, I saw Dawe standing over me where my mother should have been. It looked like we were in a flimsy motel room furnished circa 1978. For some reason I couldn’t quite remember, the place reminded me of Sydney.
I blinked up at the man and tried to make sense of the way the room kept changing colors around him, but I felt like I should be doing something else. Like I needed to be in a hurry.
“You didn’t finish your coffee,” Dawe said finally. “I’m not a doctor, but I don’t think you’ve consumed a fatal dose.”
“That’s good news,” I slurred, wondering what he was talking about.
“You might as well finish the job,” he said, sneering down at me. “It’ll make things easier on everyone if you do. You’re causing a whole lot of problems.”
I screwed up my face, trying to make sense of his words. Was he reading my mind? Hadn’t I thought the same thing recently?
I stared at Dawe. His eyes were narrowed, his expression dark.
Then, I understood.
“You want to kill me,” I said, not quite sure where the words had come from.
He looked at me and seemed equally surprised that I’d spoken them.
“No,” he said, leaning over the bed so his face took up my whole field of vision. “You want to kill yourself. That’s why you took all those pills before.”
I didn’t think that was right, but I felt confused. Couldn’t think clearly. I wasn’t the sort of person who would take pills to try to kill herself, was I? I did remember being depressed, lonely, afraid.
Was I suicidal too?
Maybe I was more like Randy Blissett than I’d realized.
Perhaps Dawe was right, and I had attempted to end my life only to discover that I was just as terrible at suicide as I was at everything else.
