Protector

by Laurel Dewey

“I’m gonna ask Lisa to move in.”

  “Who’s Lisa?”

  “You know . . . Lisa. We’ve been seeing each other for two months. Well, technically, six weeks. But I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna ask her.”

  “Mike, that’s not a good idea. It’s six weeks. You’ve spent half of those six weeks at my place. So, technically, it’s three weeks and that’s not long enough.”

  “Janie, I think she’s the one—”

  “You thought Kelly—”

  “Karen,” Mike interrupted.

  “Karen. You thought Karen was ‘the one.’ You thought Lori was ‘the one.’”

  “Okay, yeah, at the time. But Lisa’s different.”

  “They’re all different. And then it falls apart, you get hurt and it’s a mess.”

  “Fuck, Janie. Sometimes you act like my warden.”

  “That’s my job, Mike.” Jane cast her eyes toward the ground.

  “Don’t you want me to be happy?”

  “Happy? Mike, the only happy people are the ignorant. Nobody with a functioning brain is happy. They know better.” Jane looked over at Mike who was sinking into himself. “I don’t want to see you get hurt. We’ve got each other. That’s one more person than a lot of people have. I’ll never hurt you and I’ll never let you down. You can’t say that for all the Lisas out there.”

  Mike thought for a second before he spoke. “You got Chris.”

  “Fuck Chris! I’m getting rid of Chris!”

  “I thought you and he were—”

  “We’re nothing!” Jane felt herself slipping. She didn’t know whether it was the beer or the end of an awful day but she had to drag herself back into the moment. She took a deep drag off her cigarette. “Sometimes I’m talking to Chris and it’s like I’m talking to Dad.” Jane looked off to the side, lost in a pocket of emotion.

  Mike seriously considered what Jane said. “Shit . . . That’s gotta suck.” He downed another gulp of beer. “You still having those dreams about the explosion?”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “I thought so. When I tried to wake you up this morning, you were really deep sleeping.”

  “You should have gotten me up. I was damn near late to work.”

  “You were talkin’ weird again!” Mike chuckled.

  Jane turned to Mike with a puzzled expression. “Huh?”

  Mike grinned. “When you were sleepin’ these last few days, you were quite the Chatty Cathy doll. It didn’t make a shitload of sense.”

  Mike’s jovial recollections of her blackout irritated Jane. “What did I say?”

  “It was all disjointed. But . . .” Mike suddenly remembered, “I wrote some words down that you kept repeating.” He pulled a wad of receipts from his jeans pocket and sorted through the disorganized bundle. “Here it is. You explain this to me: ‘Navy blue . . . Glock something or another . . . Bright light . . . Hold on to me—’ ”

  Jane snatched the corner of paper out of Mike’s hand. Her heart raced as she read the words. Except for “Hold on to me,” it was a printed repeat of the odd staccato visions. “When did I say this?”

  “You said it lots of times over the last few days. You said other shit, too, but I couldn’t understand it.” Jane stared uneasily at the piece of paper. Mike’s happy-go-lucky countenance melted into a look of concern. “You okay?”

  Jane took a final swig of beer, finishing off the bottle. “Of course I’m okay,” she replied, as if saying that statement would make it true. “Come on, let’s get outta here.” Jane collected the empty Corona bottles.

  “This is a shitload of trash. I don’t want to drag it to the curb,” Mike said, a slight whine to his voice. Jane instructed him to snag the dolly from the workshop. He disappeared into the small, dirt-floored side building, leaving one of the large wooden doors wide open. “I can’t find it!” he yelled out to Jane.

  “Keep looking,” Jane said with an edge.

  “Man, it’s a fuckin’ mess in here. This is gonna be a bitch to clean out, Janie!”

  Jane felt her body tense up and her jaw clench. She stared at the open door to the workshop and wished Mike would find the dolly and come back. “Forget cleaning!” Jane yelled. “We’ll burn the fucker down!”

  Mike emerged from the workshop with the dolly. “Cool!” He rolled the garbage bags to the curb while Jane locked up and turned off the lights save the outside porch lamp. She felt the urge to break the stonecold silence so she popped a CD into the car’s player. Turning up the volume, the gritty voice of Bob Seger sang “Katmandu.” She picked up the six-pack of empty Corona bottles and walked around the car. Mike propped the dolly against the house and crossed over to Jane. She reached down and grabbed one of the Coronas by its long, thin neck and looked up at her dad’s workshop, the red glow of the setting sun darting across the glass windows. Reeling back her arm, she eyed one of the workshop’s windows and tossed the beer bottle toward the target. It crashed through the glass, leaving a crystal echo and a huge hole. Mike turned to her, his mouth agape. She pulled another Corona bottle from the pack and picked out another window. Hurling it through the air, it burst through the glass with a defined clatter. Jane handed Mike one of the bottles. He took it but hesitated. “Go on,” Jane insisted.

  “But it’s his—”

  “Fuck him, Mike,” Jane said with a merciless tone. “Fuck him.”

  Mike broke into a mischievous grin and hurled the bottle toward the workshop, leaving a hole in a side window. He grabbed one bottle and then another, cheering like a kid after each explosion of glass. Mike was so into the moment that he didn’t see Jane pull out her pistol from her shoulder holster. When he finally turned to her, she was focused straight ahead, both hands extended, her finger brushing the trigger. He stood perfectly still, eager to find out what Jane would do. Mike watched as her eyes zoned in on a target and a peculiar look came over her face. She squeezed the trigger with precision and blew a hole the size of a baseball in the center window. Jane calmly lowered the gun, still staring straight ahead. After several seconds, she turned to Mike. “Ready to go?”

  It was after nine o’clock when Jane turned onto Milwaukee Street. She’d stopped at the liquor store to pick up a fifth of Jack Daniels and consumed a good six swigs by the time she neared her house. As she drove closer to her home, she saw a figure seated on her front steps. At first, she thought it was Chris, but the build was wrong. It wasn’t until she pulled in front of her house that she realized it was Sergeant Weyler.

  Chapter 6

  Sergeant Weyler looked just as dapper in his suit and tie as he had over twelve hours earlier. Jane felt a rush of heat hit her head—partly from the three Coronas and whiskey she had just consumed and partly from the irritation at seeing her boss waiting for her on her own front steps. Weyler sauntered over to Jane’s car as she carefully slid the brown bag that held the Jack Daniels under the front seat. He leaned over on the passenger side of the Mustang, addressing her through the open window.

  “Good evening, Detective Perry.”

  “Hello,” Jane said, staring Weyler in the eye, trying to mask the slight buzz.

  “How are you?” Weyler said pointedly.

  “How am I supposed to be?”

  Weyler briefly surveyed the inside of the car, like a hound dog on the trail. “Have you been drinking, Detective Perry?”

  Jane was a bit put off. “I’ve had a beer,” she said with a touch of sarcasm.

  “A beer?”

  “Am I a suspect in a crime? Because I sure feel like one right now.”

  “Just a simple question—”

  “Well, sir, I don’t know why it matters. After all, I am on suspension.”

  Weyler regarded Jane very carefully. “Yes, you are.”

  There was an awkward pause between the two of them. Jane got out of her car. “Shouldn’t you be home with your wife watching Prime Suspect on PBS?” Jane said, undaunted, as she lit a cigarette. “What are you doing here?”

  Weyler sto
od straight as an arrow, pulling himself up to his full 6’4” height. “I am here, Detective Perry, to make an assessment.”

  “On what? My character? My integrity? My sanity?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you don’t know those answers by now, then I guess you don’t really know me.” Jane headed toward her front door.

  “I know you better than you think I do.”

  Jane stopped, her back to Weyler. She half believed him as a shudder raced down her spine. Jane turned back to Weyler. “What do you want?”

  “I had a visit from Martha Durrett today. She was complaining about certain obscenities.”

  “You’ll get no arguments from me. Martha Durrett is as obscene as they come.”

  Weyler chose to ignore Jane’s evasive reply. “You made quite an impression on someone today. Quite an impression.”

  Jane took a long drag on her cigarette. “Did you arrest her?”

  “Who?”

  “Who? The Mexican woman.”

  “Oh. No, I did not. As far as I’m concerned, it never happened.”

  Jane’s eyes trailed off. “I saw her in the elevator. And I knew. She had that look. So did the kid.” She looked at Weyler. “Make sure that son-of-a-bitch husband of hers suffers for what he did to his kid. Put him in a cell with five angry queers. Make him feel the same terror and pain his little girl felt.” Jane sensed the warmth of the alcohol taking effect and wanted to be alone. “I have to go. I’ve got things to do.”

  “After you left, certain things transpired regarding a high-profile case.”

  Jane jumped to attention. “You got a lead on the Stover case! I knew it!”

  “Think you can make it to the office by 10:00 tomorrow morning?”

  “I’ll be there at 8:00!”

  “Ten is fine.”

  “Sure. Ten o’clock. I’ll go over the file tonight and organize my notes.”

  Weyler stared at Jane with a careful eye. “Get some sleep.”

  “I don’t need sleep—”

  “Get some sleep.” Weyler turned and started toward his sedan. “Oh, Jane? I came here tonight against my better judgment. The case is highly sensitive. I need you to be functioning at peak performance tomorrow morning. Please don’t make me regret this.”

  “You will not regret this, boss. You have my word.”

  Jane waited until Weyler’s headlights turned off Milwaukee before she retrieved the bottle of Jack Daniels from her car.

  After an improvised dinner of macaroni and cheese, Jane situated herself at the dining room table and spread out the pages of notes and files from the Stover case. Perhaps she’d discover something new—something she’d missed before. But after four hours, everything felt like a blur. Jane stood up, stretching her back and peered at the kitchen clock. 1 a.m. She was tired but her mind was racing too fast to allow sleep—not an uncommon problem for Jane Perry. There were two ways to quell the insomnia: a healthy glass of whiskey and the drone of a late night radio show she’d come to depend on called “Night Talk.” It was an eclectic mishmash of politics, philosophy, rhetoric on current events and anything else the female host could dredge up for the legions of insomniacs that depended on the program. After several sips of whiskey, Jane turned on the radio and returned to her seat at the dining room table.

  “Good evening to all you junkies of the night . . .” Jane stared at the radio, perplexed. It wasn’t the same host. “I’m Tony Mooney and this is ‘Night Talk.’ ” His timbre was low, warm and intoxicating. Jane wasn’t sure if it was the whiskey, but she found herself drawn into Mooney’s enigmatic voice. “I’ll be hosting the show for the next six weeks or so, while your regular host is on maternity leave.” Jane took another sip of the whiskey and arched an eyebrow. Six weeks off, she thought. She couldn’t fathom a six-week break from her job. “Many of you know me as a researcher and lover of the paranormal side of life—the elusive, mystical side of our consciousness that hovers behind that fragile veil we call reality . . .” Jane regarded the radio with suspicion. Perhaps the whiskey was responsible but a sense of paranoia tightened around her. “Do you ever feel like you’re going crazy? Maybe you are. Or maybe . . . maybe you’re a genius. There’s a thin line, my friends, between genius and insanity.” Jane rubbed her head and knocked back the glass of whiskey. A pervasive blanket of sweet numbness washed over her. She poured another glass of the amber nectar and blearily dug her hand in her pants’ pocket. Feeling the edge of the small piece of paper, she withdrew it and held it under the piercing glare of the overhead light. She read the words to herself: “Navy blue . . . Glock . . . Bright light . . . Hold on to me.” She stared at the paper, her eyes moving in and out of focus. Mooney’s voice hovered in the background, a melodic, concomitant soundtrack for the drugged sensibility engulfing Jane. She felt herself falling into the words when the sharp sound of a child screaming quickly spun her around. With eyes wide open, she stared into the kitchen where the crisp scream still lingered.

  Morning came far too early. Jane awoke under the burning glare of the overhead dining table light. The fifth of whiskey was almost drained and the nearby ashtray filled with the burned out remnants of a cigarette pack. Outside, the sound of a car alarm suddenly went off, jolting Jane out of her slumber. She steadied herself between the eye-piercing overhead light and the streaming morning sun that filtered through her two large front windows. After a few seconds, she squinted toward the kitchen clock to check the time.

  9:00 a.m.

  “Shit!” Jane exclaimed as she gathered together the mass of paperwork and crammed it into the files. Between gulps of strong black coffee, she raced through the house getting ready. Her head pounded from the hangover as she heard Weyler’s warning: “Don’t make me regret this.” She was damned if that was going to happen.

  Her bandaged hand looked a bit soiled from ink stains and smelled of whiskey and cigarette smoke. She figured she’d do her best to hide the hand from Weyler. After all, he wasn’t interested in her injury. Together, they were about to break open one of the most frustrating cases of Jane’s career.

  Jane squealed into the DH parking garage with five minutes to spare. She grabbed her leather satchel, papers and files bursting from its seams, and caught the elevator. Jane hit the third floor button with the heel of her boot. As she puffed nervously on her ash-heavy cigarette, she shook her head from side to side in an attempt to throw off the heavy, throbbing aftermath of booze. Jane squashed her cigarette on the elevator wall as the doors opened onto the third floor. As she headed toward Weyler’s office she nearly ran right into evidence technician Ron Dickson.

  “Detective Perry!” Ron exclaimed. “Excuse me!”

  “It’s okay, Ron,” Jane said, trying to maneuver her way around him.

  “I know you’re in a hurry, but I wanted to remind you about the fundraising campaign for D.A.R.E. Can I put you down for your usual donation?”

  “Yeah, sure. But not now. I gotta be somewhere,” Jane said as she made her way to Weyler’s office. She hit his office with one minute to spare. Weyler looked up from his desk, assessing Jane’s appearance.

  “Good morning, Detective Perry.”

  “Morning,” Jane said as she slid into a chair and unloaded paperwork.

  “Close the door, would you?”

  Jane pushed the door shut with her hand. The sound of the sudden slam caused her to grimace in pain.

  “How are you this morning?” Weyler said haltingly.

  “Fine, sir,” Jane said, keeping her eyes on her files and avoiding Weyler’s glare.

  Weyler leaned over and turned on the radio to an easy listening station. Jane’s attention was immediately drawn to the music. Weyler gradually cranked up the volume on a particularly high-pitched Bee Gees tune. To Jane, it was like fingernails on a chalkboard. She grabbed her head in pain. Weyler quickly turned off the radio.

  “You’re hungover!” Weyler said angrily.

  “No! I fell asleep on the dining room table. My n
eck’s stiff. I’ll be fine.”

  Weyler rose from his chair and leaned across his desk toward Jane. “I told you this was important! I told you this was a highly sensitive meeting. And you still got drunk!” Weyler’s voice had a nervous edge that Jane had never heard. “You’re going to make me look like a damn fool, Detective Perry. I’m putting my ass on the line for you! I expected a little more cooperation!”

  Jane was taken aback by Weyler’s sudden anger. He seemed overly concerned, in her opinion. “Sir,” she said carefully, “it’s just you and me sitting here, throwing possible scenarios back and forth.”

  Weyler stared at Jane, his anger still evident. Jane nervously pulled out more files. “Put your files away, Detective Perry.”

  “I need notes, sir. I don’t have it all memorized.”

  “Put your files away. You will not need them.” Weyler said with emphasis.

  “Sir?” Jane said confused and flustered. “What’s going on?”

  Weyler composed himself and sat down, adjusting his freshly pressed dark suit. “I came to your house last night to make an assessment as to your ability to function. It was vital that you appear in the office this morning sober, not smelling of whiskey and not looking like you’ve spent the night slumped over furniture. Your appearance and capacity to think clearly is of utmost importance in this sensitive issue.”

  “If I’m supposed to address the media today, you should have told me!”

  “It’s not the media! And it’s got nothing to do with the Stover case.”

  Jane sat back, totally perplexed and feeling uneasy. “What the hell is it?”

  “How much of the news have you caught the last couple days?”

  “None. I’ve been occupied.”

  “You are completely unaware of the leading news story on every local network?”

  “I’ve been busy—” Jane said, annoyed.

  “Well, allow me to fill you in on what everyone in Denver is talking about. Two nights ago, on the evening of May 23, a little girl named Emily Lawrence, age nine and a half, barricaded herself in her bedroom closet while her parents were brutally stabbed to death downstairs in their living room. The living room was torn apart, as though the killer or killers were looking for something. The only incriminating evidence found at the house was a mound of cocaine weighing in at nearly five ounces. This occurred in the Washington Park neighborhood where instances such as murder and high stakes drug trafficking are about as common as a comet hitting a large city.”