Protector

by Laurel Dewey

  “So, how you doing?” she asked.

  “The same, I guess.” Mike scanned the menu quickly and tossed it aside. “I’m not hungry.”

  “I know your stomach is in knots, but you have to eat.”

  “I’m not hungry, Janie.” Mike’s voice raised a few decibels.

  “Fine. Go ahead and starve.”

  There was an awkward silence until the waitress arrived. Jane ordered a French Dip. She took a sip of beer and studied her brother. Mike always had a difficult time whenever he had to see his dad but something seemed different about his melancholy mood. He sat staring at the tabletop, rolling the edge of the paper napkin back and forth with his thumb. Jane could sense a boiling tension below the surface. It took several more minutes of silence before he finally spoke up.

  “You sleep much last night?”

  “No,” Jane replied.

  “Me neither. I did a lot of thinking.” Mike looked off to the side in a half daze. “Do you still believe in God?”

  Jane was slightly taken aback by the question. “Yeah. Sure. Everything has its opposite and I know for sure there’s a devil so I’m sure there’s a God somewhere.”

  “You ever pray to Him?”

  “What’s all this about?”

  “Do you pray to Him?” Mike repeated with emphasis.

  Jane was getting weary of the odd exchange. “No, Mike. I don’t. I used to when we were kids but then I got tired of Him never answering my prayers.”

  “Oh...Maybe He did answer and the answer was ‘no.’ ”

  Jane leaned forward, speaking quietly but directly. “What’s all this God shit?”

  “You shouldn’t say ‘God’ and ‘shit’ in the same sentence, Janie.”

  “Mike, what the fuck is going on?” He let out a deep breath and kept his eyes pinned on the paper napkin. Jane was at a loss to understand his behavior. “Hey,” Jane said trying to sound empathetic, “I know you’re nervous about seeing the son-of-a-bitch. And I know it’s short notice—”

  “Janie—”

  “Look, you don’t have to go in. Just stay in the car. I’ll tell him you’re sick.”

  “Janie, that’s not all of it.”

  “Of course it is, Mike!” Jane said, sounding more like a tired parent.

  “Oh, Janie . . .” Mike’s voice trailed off as he stared off to the side again. “Do you believe that everybody has a defining moment in their life? You know, something that alters the course of their existence? Something that turns them into a completely different person? And afterward, nothing is ever the same. Is that possible?”

  Jane felt an uncomfortable tremor in her belly. “Yes! We all have defining moments.”

  “You think it’s possible to have more than one defining moment in your life?” Mike seemed to struggle with the concept but pressed on. “Like, do you think that you could have a defining moment when you were young and then have another moment that defines you all over again? Does that make sense?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. You’re giving me a headache. What’s all this about?”

  Mike stared down at the napkin. “I’m not sure I can talk about it just yet.”

  Jane leaned forward. “What do you mean?”

  “I need to think about it some more.”

  “Think about what? Come on, you always tell me everything.” Jane reached across the table and touched Mike’s hand. “Mike, talk to me. Whatever it is, I’ll fix it.”

  Mike looked at his sister with a guarded eye. “I don’t think you can, Janie.”

  The one-hour drive out to their father’s rehabilitation nursing home in the Denver suburb of Wheatridge was completely silent. Jane finished off a half pack of cigarettes while Mike stared out the window, lost in his own world.

  It had been over a week since Jane drove out to see Dale. When she’d arrived, her father was fast asleep so she quickly left, not even alerting the nurses to her aborted visit. Prior to that, the last time she had seen her father was weeks before his illness. He’d demanded that she come out to the house after a power outage and reprogram his VCR. That visit lasted less than twenty minutes before she lied about having to get back to work. She knew Dale was aware it was a lie. He could always read her and destroy that carefully constructed wall of protection. From what she had been told by the nurses, Dale’s stroke was enough to permanently place him in a 24-hour care facility for physical reasons, but not so disabling to destroy his mental faculties. Jane wasn’t sure if her father knew she was suspended from the Department but she figured the news would be plastered all over her psyche when she walked into his room.

  Jane parked her Mustang across the street from the care facility. She turned to Mike who stared out the window. “You coming in?” she asked. Mike kept his eyes fixed outside and shook his head. “Okay. I won’t be long.” Jane took one long, penetrating drag after another on her cigarette as she neared the front door of the facility. Tossing the butt on the ground, she entered the building. The hallway reeked of ammonia, urine and overcooked broccoli.

  “Miss Perry?” a voice called out. Jane turned just in time to encounter the head nurse, Zoe. “Thanks for coming. I know it’s difficult when it’s last minute.”

  Jane looked down the hall toward Dale’s room. “What’s going on with him?”

  “He has good days and bad days. Today seems to be a good day.”

  “Really?” Jane said, not impressed. “What makes it a good day?”

  “He’s lucid. He was able to walk to the bathroom with very little help this morning. I don’t want to give you the impression that he could ever return to his home. Even though things are improving, his health is still fragile. Another stroke or heart attack could put him in I.C.U.” Jane nodded. “I want you to know we’re doing everything possible to keep him happy and comfortable.”

  Jane lost herself for a moment. “Well, that’s great,” she said with no emotion as she stared down the sterile hallway.

  “I’ll let you visit with your dad.”

  “Uh-huh,” Jane replied. Zoe walked back to her station but Jane didn’t move. She started to turn back toward the front door but stopped when she saw several nurses looking at her. Reluctantly, she walked down the hall to her father’s door and stood to the side, out of his view. Jane let out a deep breath and crossed the threshold.

  Dale Perry was propped up in bed, eyes glued to the television screen that was tuned to Court TV. The sound was muted. Dozens of greeting cards were pinned to the wall on either side of his bed. Vases of long stemmed flowers graced both bedside tables. A banner stretched the length of the opposite wall. In red and black letters it read, “GET WELL, DALE!” which was followed by “Your pals at Denver PD!”

  Her father was hooked to an IV and heart monitor. An oxygen tank sat nearby. Jane stood inside the doorway, waiting. Dale turned his head on his pillow and looked at her. He appeared to have aged ten years compared to the day Jane went out to his house to fix the VCR. The only thing that remained sharp and stoic was his grey, regimented buzz haircut. It reminded Jane of the quills on a porcupine—sharp, rigid and ready to attack.

  “You got the message,” Dale said, his speech slightly slurred. “I bet that nurse ten bucks you wouldn’t show. Make sure you pay her the money on the way out.” Jane didn’t move a muscle. “You gonna plant your ass in a chair or are you gonna just stand there like some retard?” Jane carefully moved to a bedside chair and sat down. “You look like hell,” Dale said, eyeing Jane like a perp. Jane looked off to the side, pursing her lips, as Dale glared at Jane. “Where’s your brother?” he said, his voice slightly raised.

  “He couldn’t make it,” Jane said, looking at the television screen.

  Dale stared even more intently at Jane. “He’s in the car, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The weak little fuck is hiding out. Shit.”

  Jane kept her eyes glued to the television. Her heart raced and her head pounded. She figured that if she avoided his eye
s, he wouldn’t be able to drill into her head. “Why do you have the sound off?”

  “I don’t need sound to hear a fuckin’ lie. It’s not what they say, it’s what they do. Didn’t you learn anything?”

  “What’s the case?” Jane said, still focused on the television.

  “The defendant is charged with murdering his wife and kids. But they can’t find the bodies. The fucker on the stand is a defense witness. He’s a friend of the fucker who killed his wife and kids. Look at him. There! Look how he touched his mouth and glanced over to the defendant. I bet that asshole helped him dump the bodies. It’s so obvious. He’s like one big open sore and nobody can see the pus. They’re blind!” Dale screamed at the television. “They miss what they don’t want to see.” Dale looked over at Jane and her bandaged hand. “Christ, you still have that goddamn hand bandaged? That was one of your less intelligent moments.”

  Jane took her eyes off the screen and turned toward her father. “Trying to get a kid out of a burning car?”

  Dale let out a slight snicker. “The fucking car’s engulfed in flames and you decide to suspend common sense and try to punch a fucking hole in the window with your fist. Jane, do the fucking math. That kid was gonna die either way. You should have saved your hand.” Dale turned to Jane, meeting her eye to eye. “But you actually believed you were going to be the hero, didn’t you? Didn’t I teach you that lesson a long time ago?”

  Dale’s words cut to the bone. Once again, she’d let her guard down and he was worming his way back inside her head. She quickly turned back to the TV. A smile creased Dale’s face. “You’re so easy,” he said, the venom dripping from his mouth. “You don’t know who blew them up, do you?”

  “No,” Jane whispered.

  “That’s because you haven’t followed the right road. You take what you know and find the right road and it always leads to the killer. What you know is that it was a hit. That’s obvious. What you know is that Stover, ‘Mr. Fuckin’ Entrepreneur of the Year,’ was a coke and meth addict. What you know is that Stover and the Texas mob were in bed together. Stover let them launder drug money through his businesses in exchange for all the free meth and coke he could sniff up his nose. Over time, he got to hear all their important secrets. You also know that the Texas mob offers under the table protection for all the ‘Gooks’ and ‘Chinks’ in Denver. Every single one of those is an undeniable fact. So, then Stover gets his ass caught by the cops and he has to make a big decision. Do I lose everything I’ve worked for, my reputation, my family and get plastered across the front of every newspaper or do I tell the cops everything I know about the mob and their connections? Do I name the players and take away their mystery? Maybe Stover wasn’t the only one with a lot to lose. Maybe there were other people just like him with reputations to uphold that didn’t want the spotlight. Other people with businesses that are really just fronts. People who live two lives.” Dale leaned closer to Jane. “Who did Stover know and who knew him? Ask yourself that question! Follow the protection money and you’ll find your killer. Of course, that means you have to cut through all the bullshit and have the guts to see what’s smack in front of you. I’m not sure you know how to do that. You’ll always miss what you don’t want to see. Then you’ll be just like those assholes up on that TV.”

  Jane may have had her eyes on the TV the whole time, but she didn’t miss a word of her father’s speech. “I gotta get going,” she said.

  “Hold your fuckin’ horses. I told you I wanted to discuss some things with you. I understand from the boys at DH that you and Mike are going through the house and cleaning it out. I got some things that I want to sell to some of the guys. They’ve been hounding me for years about my tool chest and guns. Your lover boy Chris wants that old hand drill for his boat. Go over to the house tonight and get the stuff and take it to DH. They’ll settle up among themselves and Chris can bring me the money.”

  “Where is it?”

  “It’s in the workshop. Take care of it tonight.” Dale sunk his head into his pillow and watched the television. Jane sat motionless in her chair. “I thought you had to go,” Dale said. Jane gradually got up. “Tell your brother he’s a fuckin’ coward.” Jane moved toward the door. “Oh, and Jane?” Jane turned around. Dale moved his right hand up to his face, stuck out his thumb and first finger to look like a gun and pointed it at Jane’s head. He peered at her and then quickly flicked his thumb to mimic a trigger. A grin crept across his face and he quietly said,

  “Bang!”

  Their eyes locked and Dale shot into her head.

  Jane dropped Mike off at Duffy’s to pick up his car. She didn’t say a word to him about getting the tool chest and guns from the workshop. Mike was so far gone into his own world, Jane wasn’t about to broach the subject with him.

  She stopped at the corner liquor store and picked up a six-pack of Corona. By the time she hit the turnoff on I-70 to her father’s house, she had knocked back two bottles and was on her third. No matter how loud she cranked the volume on her radio, Dale’s voice continued to play loudly in her head. “Follow the protection money” and “You actually believed you were going to be the hero, didn’t you?” blended into “Didn’t I teach you that lesson a long time ago.” The last sentence stung. This was where the madness always began. And to compound matters, she was less than five minutes away from the present melting into the past.

  Jane pulled into Dale’s gravel driveway and turned off the engine. She drained what was left of the third Corona, popped open another and lit a cigarette. Jane stared ahead at the workshop, standing starkly against an aqua sky. The alcohol gave her a slight buzz—a welcome effect that she had hoped would dull the process and make it easier. But instead, it was as if her senses were heightened. She tried shaking it off as she popped open the car door and got out.

  As she walked toward the workshop, a cacophony of screeching birds welled up from the surrounding willow trees. She reached the workshop and waited before clinking open the broken, rusty lock and letting the battered door slowly creak open.

  Immediately, Jane was greeted by that familiar odor of wet wood, dirt floor and old paint curled at the edges. Sharp shafts of sunlight beat down from the slanted windows on the roof. She crossed inside, minding each step on the dirt floor that lay littered with the broken glass from the impromptu bottle and bullet vandalism she and Mike enjoyed a few days ago. Jane regarded her father’s worktable where parts of a .22 rifle were strewn. Dale’s reading glasses were perched next to a can of gun lubricant oil that was missing its red plastic protective tip. Her eyes scanned the table until they rested upon Dale’s dusty eight track stereo player with the bent handle.

  Jane took a long swig of her beer and turned to face the opposite wall. Several boxes sat on the dirt floor in front of a rectangular object covered by an old blanket pad. She nervously dragged on her cigarette for several minutes, staring at the blanket pad. Finally, Jane scuffed toward it, gingerly lifting the padding to reveal the end of a five foot long, unframed mirror. Along the corner section was a curved crack that ran from top to bottom. She pulled the padding off the mirror and sunk to the floor. The fracture across the mirror sliced her reflection in half, distorting her image. It was no use fighting it any longer. So, she decided to give in and live her nightmare to its conclusion once again.

  It’s that same snowy night in her 14th year. Dale pushes Jane forward into the workshop. She skids across the soft dirt floor on her shoulder, her face bloodied. Dale closes the door and snaps off his thick black belt. He lunges toward Jane and lays a hard crack of the belt across her back.

  “Who the fuck do you think you are!” Dale screams before moving closer to Jane and nailing her with another lick of the belt. Jane covers her head with her arms and tries to get up, but at each attempt, Dale’s belt whips down harder. “You don’t fuck with me, bitch!” Down comes another lash of the belt. “You understand me?!”

  Dale hovers over Jane’s crouching body and showers her wit
h a series of punishing blows from his belt. By the ninth stroke, Jane begins to lose consciousness. She fights the feeling and rolls up on one knee, ducking the continuing lashes. She reaches out toward the oncoming belt. Connecting with it, she grabs the belt with both hands and pulls herself up on her feet jerking the belt from her father’s hand and throws it against the wall.

  “Asshole!” she screams, slightly dazed.

  The words no sooner stumble from her lips when Dale backhands Jane hard across her face. She spins to her right and careens headfirst into Dale’s worktable. As she makes contact with the table, she feels a surge of excruciating pain in her right temple. At the same moment, her hand reaches out to break her fall and hits the “play” button on Dale’s tape player. The voice of Nancy Sinatra fills the workshop, singing “These Boots Are Made For Walkin’.”

  “You keep saying you got something for me

  Something you call love but confess

  You’ve been a’messin’ where you shouldn’t have been a’messin’

  And now someone else is getting all your best.”

  Jane’s back is to Dale. Blood drips from her right temple and into her eye. The room spins wildly. In the distance, she can hear the faint sound of his voice screaming at her but can’t make out the words. Nancy Sinatra’s recording drones loudly in her ear as Jane tries to focus on the object directly in front of her on the table.

  “Well, these boots are made for walkin’

  And that’s just what they’ll do

  One of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you . . .”

  Jane tips her head to the right to force the blood out of her eye and makes out the object that sits within her reach. It’s a Smith & Wesson, 357 Magnum revolver and the chamber is fully loaded. She carefully drags her hand a few inches and wraps it around the butt of the gun. Her head pounds and the searing pain in her temple permeates her entire being. She gathers her strength, lifts her head, scoops the gun off the table and spins around to face her father. She stands, both arms outstretched, hands wrapped tightly around the grip of the gun. Blood streams from her temple, down the side of her face and gradually works its way into the corner of her right eye. Through the glaze of blood, she aims the shiny black barrel at her father’s head. Dale stops screaming and stands firm. The only sound between the two of them is the incessant blare of Nancy Sinatra’s voice and Jane’s labored breathing.